THE DANCER Vil 








‘CHAMBERS S| 





THE LIBRARY 
Ok 
THE UNIVERSITY 


OF CALIFORNIA 
LOS ANGELES 








The 
DANGER MARK 


*“* Please do te 


ll me somebody is scandalised. ’ ”’ 


[Page 156.] 





The 
DANGER MARK 


BY 


ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 


AUTHOR OF 
“THE FIGHTING CHANCE,” ‘‘ THE YOUNGER SET,” 
, “THE FIRING LINE,” ETC. 





WITH -ILLUSTRATIONS BY 


A. B. WENZELL 


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 
1909 


Copyriaut, 1909, BY 
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 





CopyriGHT, 1909, By 
THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY 


Published September, 1909 


TO 


MY FRIEND 


JOHN CARRINGTON YATES 


2134383 


























F 


a 


a 


: 
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- 
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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 


1.—TuHeE SEAGRAVES 
II.—In Trust 
Ill.—Tue TaresHow . . . ., 
IV.—Tue Year or Discretion . 
V.—Roya-NEH Siac 9, Mae Ciel Tl, a 
VE. ABRE ee Se Bg 
VII.—TocetHer 
VITI.—An Arrerciow . .. . 
IX.—ConrFESSION 
X.—Dusk 
XI.—Fertre GALANTE 
XII.—Tue Love or THE Gops 
XIiI.—Ampitions anp LetTrers 
XIV.—TueE PropHets 
XV.—Dysart 
XVI.—TuHrRovGH THE Woops 
XVII.—Tue Dancer Mark 
XVIII.—Bon CHien 


vii 


CONTENTS 








CHAPTER 
XIX.—QuvEstTIONsS AND ANSWERS 


XX.—In Searcy or Hersetr 
XXI.—Tue Gotpen Hours 
XXII.—Cioupy Mountain 

XXIII.—Sine Die . 


XXIV.—Tue Protogur Enps . 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 


“**Please do tell me somebody is scandalized’”’ Frontispiece 


***Can I have what other women have—silk underwear and 


stockings ?’”” 
““*Duane!’ she gasped—‘why did you?’”’ 
“Oh, the horror of it!—the shame, the agonized surprise” 


“**'This is one of those rare occasions . . . where goodness 


is . . . amply rewarded’” 
““*T want to confess! I’ve been horribly depraved for a 


week!’”’ 


“She dropped him a very low, very slow, very marvellous 


courtesy” 


“Crumpled up like a white flower in his arms” 


PAGE 


44 
84 
110 


122 


196 


244 
385 


3  frasaabsaic ay tag bupti se $41, 
ARS ee cheet magiaeks ait 
re ) ie 
r = > = too en | 


eee ee 
; vf airy x 


SE Nad 
cae ta eae Se 4 


a 





THE DANGER MARK 


CHAPTER I 
THE SEAGRAVES 


Aut day Sunday they had raised the devil from 
attic to cellar; Mrs. Farren was in tears, Howker des- 
perate. Not one out of the fifteen servants considered 
necessary to embellish the Seagrave establishment 
could do anything with them after Kathleen Severn’s 
sudden departure the week before. 

When the telegram announcing her mother’s sud- 
den illness summoned young Mrs. Severn to Staten 
Island, every servant in the household understood that 
serious trouble was impending for them. 

Day by day the children became more unruly; Sun- 
day they were demons; and Mrs. Farren shuddered to 
think what Monday might bring forth. 

The day began ominously at breakfast with gen- 
eral target practice, ammunition consisting of projec- 
tiles pinched from the interior of hot muffins. Later, 
when Mrs. Farren ventured into the schoolroom, she 
found Scott Seagrave drawing injurious pictures of 
Howker on the black-board, and Geraldine sorting 
lumps of sugar from the bowl on the breakfast-tray, 
which had not yet been removed. 


* Dearies,” she began, “it is after nine o’clock 
39 





and. 


1 


biog 


THE DANGER MARK 








“No school to-day, Mrs. Farren,” interrupted 
Scott cheerfully ; “ we haven’t anything to do till Kath- 
leen comes back, and you know it perfectly well!” 

“ Yes, you have, dearie; Mrs. Severn has just sent 
you this list of lessons.” She held out a black-edged 
envelope. 

Geraldine, who had been leisurely occupied in drop- 
ping cologne on a lump of sugar, thrust the lump 
into her pink mouth and turned sharply on Mrs. 
Farren. 

“What list?” she demanded. ‘Give that letter 
to me. .. . Oh, Scott! Did you ever hear of any- 
thing half so mean? Kathleen’s written out about a 
thousand questions in geography for us!” 

“T can’t stand that sort of interference!” shouted 
Scott, dropping his chalk and aiming a kick at the big 
papier-maché globe. “I’m sorry Kathleen’s mother is 
probably going to die, but I’ve had enough geography, 
too.” 

“Mrs. Severn’s mother died on Friday,” said the 
housekeeper solemnly. 

The children paused, serious for a moment in the 
presence of the incomprehensible. 

“We're sorry,” said Geraldine slowly. . . . “ When 
is Kathleen coming back? ” 

“Perhaps to-night, dearie——” 

Scott impatiently detached the schoolroom globe 
from its brass axis: “ I’m sorry, too,” he said; “ but 
I’m tired of lessons. Now, Mrs. Farren, watch me! 
I’m going to kick a goal from the field. Here, you 
hold it, Geraldine; Mrs. Farren, you had better try 
to block it and cheer for Yale!” 

Geraldine seized the globe, threw herself flat on the 
floor, and, head on one side, wriggled, carefully con- 

2 


THE SEAGRAVES 








sidering the angle. Then, tipping the globe, she ad- 
justed it daintily for her brother to kick. 

“ A little higher, please; look out there, Mrs. Far- 
ren!” said Scott calmly; “ Harvard is going to score 
_ this time. Now, Geraldine!” 

Thump! came the kick, but Mrs. Farren had fled, 
and the big globe struck the nursery door and bounced 
back minus half of South America. 

For ten minutes the upper floors echoed with the 
racket. Geraldine fiercely disputed her brother’s right 
to kick every time; then, as usual, when she got what 
she wanted, gave up to Scott and let him monopolise 
the kicking until, satiated, he went back to the black- 
board, having obliterated several continents from the 
face of the globe. 

“You might at least be polite enough to hold it for 
me to kick,” said his sister. ‘“ What a pig you are, 
Scott.” 

“Don’t bother me; I’m drawing Howker. You 
can’t kick straight, anywa 7 

“Yes, I can!” 

Scott, intent on his drawing, muttered: 

“TI wish there was another boy in this house; I 
might have a little fun to-day if there was anybody to 
play with.” ; 

There ensued a silence; then he heard his sister’s 
light little feet flying along the hallway toward their 
bedrooms, but went on calmly with his drawing, using 
some effective coloured crayon on Howker’s nose. 
Presently he became conscious that Geraldine had re- 
entered the room. 

“What are you going to do to-day?” he asked, 
preoccupied. 

Geraldine, dressed in her brother’s clothes, was 

3 





THE DANGER MARK 








kneeling on one knee and hastily strapping on a single 
roller-skate. 

“Il show you,” she said, rising and shaking the 
dark curls out of her eyes. “ Come on, Scott, I’m go- 
ing to misbehave all day. Look at me! I’ve brought 
you the boy you wanted to play with.” 

Her brother turned, considered her with patronis- 
ing toleration, then shrugged his shoulders. 

“ You look like one, but you’re no good,” he said. 

“T can be just as bad as any boy!” she insisted. 
**T’ll do whatever you do; I’ll do worse, I tell you. 
Dare me to do something!” 

“You don’t dare skate backward into the red 
drawing-room! There’s too much bric-a-brac.” 

She turned like a flash and was off, hopping and 
clattering down-stairs on her single skate, and a mo- 
ment later she whirled into the red drawing-room 
backward and upset a Sang-de-beeuf jar, reducing the 
maid to horrified tears and the jar to powder. 

Howker strove in vain to defend his dining-room 
when Scott appeared on one skate; but the breakfast- 
room and pantry were forcibly turned into rinks; the 
twins swept through the halls, met and defeated their 
nurses, Margaret and Betty, tumbled down into the 
lower regions, from there descended to the basement, 
and whizzed cheerily through the kitchen, waving two 
skateless legs. 

There Mrs. Bramton attempted to buy them off 
with tribute in the shape of cup-cakes. 

“Sure, darlints, they do be starvin’ yez,” purred 
Mrs. Bramton. “Don’t I know the likes o’? them? 
Now roon away quietlike an’ ladylike——” 

“ Like a hen,” retorted Scott. “I want some pre- 
serves,” 


A 


THE SEAGRAVES 








“That’s all very well,” said Geraldine with her 
mouth full, “but we expected to skate about the 
kitchen and watch you make pastry. Kindly begin, 
Mrs. Bramton.” 

*I’d like to see what’s inside of that chicken over 
there,” said Scott. ‘ And I want you to give me some 
raisins, Mrs. Bramton “‘¢ 

“I’m dying for a glass of milk,” added Geraldine. 
“Get me some dough, somebody; I’m going to bake 
something.” 

Scott, who, devoured by curiosity, had been sniffing 
around the spice cupboard, sneezed violently ; a Swed- 
ish kitchen-maid threw her apron over her head, weak 
with laughter. 

“If you’re laughing at me, I'll fix you, Olga 
shouted Scott in a rage; and the air was suddenly filled 
with balls of dough. Mrs. Bramton fled before the 
storm; a well-directed volley drove the maids to cover 
and stampeded the two cats. 

“Take whatever is good to eat, Geraldine. Hur- 
rah! The town surrenders! Loot it! No quarter!” 
shouted Scott. However, when Howker arrived they 
retired hastily with pockets full of cinnamon. sticks, 
olives, prunes, and dried currants, climbing trium- 
phantly to the library above, where they curled up on a 
leather divan, under the portrait of their mother, to 
divide the spoils. 

“Am I bad enough to suit you?” inquired Ger- 
aldine with pardonable pride. 

“Pooh! That’s nothing. If I had another boy 
here ?’d—I’d 45 

“ Well, what? ” demanded Geraldine, flushing. “I 
tell you I can misbehave as well as any boy. Dare me to 
do anything and you’ll see! I dare you to dare me!” 

5 





129 





THE DANGER MARK 








Scott began: “Oh, it’s all very easy for a girl to 
talk 
“1 don’t talk; I do it! And you know perfectly 


well I do!” 
“You're a girl, after all, even if you have got on 
” 








my clothes 

“ Didn’t I throw as much dough at Olga and Mrs. 
Bramton as you did? ” 

“ You didn’t hit anybody.” 

“J did! I saw a soft, horrid lump stick to Olga!” 

* Pooh! You can’t throw straigh . 

“'That’s a lie!” said Geraldine excitedly. 

Scott bristled: 

“If you say that again a 

“ All right; go and get the boxing-gloves. You 
did tell a lie, Scott, because I did hit Olga!” 

Scott hastily unstrapped his lone skate, cast it clat- 
tering from him, and sped up-stairs. When he re- 
turned he hurled a pair of boxing-gloves at Geraldine, 
who put them on, laced them, trembling with wrath, 
and flew at her brother as soon as his own gloves were 
fastened. 

They went about their business like lightning, 
swinging, blocking, countering. Twice she gave him in- 
viting openings and then punished him savagely before 
he could get away; then he attempted in-fighting, but 
her legs were too nimble. And after a while he lost 
his head and came at her using sheer weight, which 
set her beside herself with fury. 

Teeth clenched, crimson-cheeked, she side-stepped, 
feinted, and whipped in an upper-cut. Then, darting 
in, she drove home her left with all her might ; and Scott 
went down with an unmistakable thud. 

“One — two — three — four,” she counted, “and 


6 








THE SEAGRAVES 








you did tell a lie, didn’t you? ~Five—six— Oh, Scott! 
I’ve made your nose bleed horridly! Does it hurt, 
dear? Seven—eight ef 

The boy, still confused, rose and instinctively as- 
sumed the classic attitude of self-defence; but his sis- 
ter threw down her gloves and offered him her hand- 
kerchief, saying: “‘ You’ve just got to be fair to me 
now, Scott. Tell me that I throw straight and that I 
did hit Olga!” 

He hesitated; wiped his nose: 

* T take it back. You can throw itirai ght: Ginger! 
What a crack you just gave me!” 

She was all compunction and honey now, hovering 
around him where he stood stanching honourable 
wounds. After a while he laughed. ‘ Thunder!” he 
exclaimed ruefully ; “ my nose seems to be growing for 
fair. You’re all right, Geraldine.” 

** Here’s my last cup-cake, if you like,” said his sis- 
ter, radiant. 

Embarrassed a little by defeat, but nursing no bit- 
~terness, he sat down on the leather divan again and per- 
mitted his sister to feed him and tell him that his 
disaster was only an accident. He tried to think so, 
too, but serious doubts persisted in his mind. There 
had been a clean-cut finish to that swing and jab which 
disturbed his boy’s conceit. 

“We'll try it again,” he began. “Tm all right 
now, if you like——” 

* Oh, Scott, I don’t want to!” 

* Well, we ought to know which of us really can 
lick the other 

“Why, of course, you can lick me every time. Be- 
sides, I wouldn’t want to be able to lick you—except 
when I’m very, very angry. And I ought not to be- 

7 








THE DANGER MARK 








come angry the way I do. Kathleen tries so hard to 
make me stop and reflect before I do things, but I can’t 
seem to learn. . . . Does your nose hurt? ” 

“ Not in the least,” said her brother, reddening and 
changing the subject. “I say, it looks as though it 
were going to stop raining.” 

He went to the window; the big Seagrave house 
with its mansard roof, set in the centre of an entire city 
block, bounded by Madison and Fifth Avenues and by 
Ninety-fifth and Ninety-sixth Streets, looked out from 
its four red brick facades onto strips of lawn and 
shrubbery, now all green and golden with new grass 
and early buds. 

It was topsy-turvy, March-hare weather, which 
perhaps accounted for the early April dementia that 
possessed the children at recurring intervals, and which 
nothing ever checked except the ultimate slumber of 
infantile exhaustion. 

If anybody in the house possessed authority to pun- 
ish them, nobody exercised it. Servants grown gray in 
the Seagrave service endured much, partly for the chil- 
dren’s sakes, partly in memory of the past; but the 
newer and younger domestics had less interest in the 
past glories and traditions of an old New York family 
which, except for two little children, ten years old, had 
perished utterly from the face of the land. 

The entire domestic régime was a makeshift—had 
been almost from the beginning. Mrs. Farren, the — 
housekeeper, understood it; Howker, the butler, knew 
it; Lacy knew it—he who had served forty years as 
coachman in the Seagrave family. 

For in all the world there remained not one living 
soul who through ties of kinship was authorised to 
properly control these children. Nor could they them- 

8 


THE SEAGRAVES 








selves even remember parental authority; and only a 
shadowy recollection of their grandfather’s lax dis- 
cipline survived, becoming gradually, as time passed, 
nothing more personal to them than a pleasant legend 
kept alive and nourished in the carefully guarded 
stories told them by Kathleen Severn and by Anthony 
Seagrave’s old servants. 

Yet, in the land, and in his own city of Manhattan, 
their grandfather had been a very grand man, with his 
large fortune, now doubled and still increasing; he had 
been a very distinguished man in the world of fashion 
with his cultivated taste in art and wine and letters 
and horses; he had been a very important man, too, in 
the civic, social, and political construction of New 
York town, in the quaint-days when the sexton of Old 
Trinity furnished fashionable hostesses with data con- 
cerning the availability of social aspirants. He had 
been a courtly and fascinating man, too. He had died 
a drunkard. 

Now his grandchildren were fast forgetting him. 
The town had long since forgotten him. Only an old 
friend or two and his old servants remembered what he 
had been, his virtues, his magnificence, his kindness, 
and his weakness. 

But if the Seagrave twins possessed neither father 
nor mother to exercise tender temporal and spiritual 
suzerainty in the nursery, and if no memory of their 
grandfather’s adoring authority remained, the last will 
and testament of Anthony Seagrave had provided a 
marvellous, man-created substitute for the dead: a 
vast, shadowy thing which ruled their lives with pas- 
sionless precision; which ordered their waking hours 
even to the minutest particulars; which assumed ma- 
chine-like charge of their persons, their personal ex- 

9 


THE DANGER MARK 








penses, their bringing-up, their schooling, the items 
of their daily routine. 

This colossal automaton, almost terrifyingly im- 
personal, loomed always above them, throwing its 
powerful and gigantic shadow across their lives. As 
they grew old enough to understand, it became to them 
the embodiment of occult and unpleasant authority 
which controlled their coming and going; which chose 
for them their personal but not their legal guardian, 
Kathleen Severn; which fixed upon the number of ser- 
vants necessary for the house that Anthony Seagrave 
directed should be maintained for his grandchildren ; 
which decided what kind of expenses, what sort of 
clothing, what recreations, what accomplishments, what 
studies, what religion they should be provided with. 

And the name of this enormous man-contrived ma- 
chine which took the place of father and mother was 
the Half Moon Trust Company, acting as trustee, 
guardian, and executor for two little children, who 
neither understood why they were sometimes very un- 
ruly or that they would one day be very, very rich. 

As for their outbreaks, an intense sense of loneli- 
ness for which they were unable to account was always 
followed by a period of restlessness sure to culminate 
in violent misbehaviour. 

Such an outbreak had been long impending. So 
when a telegram called away their personal guardian, 
Kathleen Severn, the children broke loose with the deli- 
cate fury of the April tempest outside, which all the 
morning had been blotting the western windows with 
gusts of fragrant rain. 

The storm was passing now; light volleys of rain 
still arrived at intervals, slackening as the spring sun 
broke out, gilding naked branches and bare brown 

10 


THE SEAGRAVES 








earth, touching swelling buds and the frail points of 
tulips which pricked the soaked loam in close-set 
thickets. 

From the library bay windows where they stood, 
the children noticed dandelions in the grass and snow- 
drops under the trees and recognised the green signals 

of daffodil and narcissus. 

Already crocuses, mauve, white, and yellow, glim- 
mered along a dripping privet hedge which crowned 
the brick and granite wall bounding the domain of 
Seagrave. East, through the trees, they could see the 
roofs of electric cars speeding up and down Madison 
Avenue, and the houses facing that avenue. North and 
south were quiet streets; westward Fifth Avenue ran, 
a sheet of wet, golden asphalt glittering under the 
spring sun, and beyond it, above the high retaining 
wall, budding trees stood out against the sky, and the 
waters of the Park reservoirs sparkled behind. 

“T am glad it’s spring, anyway,” said Geraldine 
listlessly. 

“ What’s the good of it?” asked Scott. “ We'll 
have to take all our exercise with Kathleen just the 
same, and watch other children having good times. 
What’s the use of spring? ” 

“ Spring is tiresome,” admitted Geraldine thought- 
fully. 

“So is winter. I think either would be all right 
if they’d only let me have a few friends. There are 
plenty of boys I’d like to have some fun with if they’d 
let me.” 

“I wonder,” mused Geraldine, “if there is any- 
thing the matter with us, Scott?” 

“ss Why? 9 

“Oh—I don’t know. People stare at us so—nurses ~ 

Il 


THE DANGER MARK 








always watch us and begin to whisper as soon as we 
come along. Do you know what a boy said to me once 
when I skated very far ahead of Kathleen? " 

“ What did he say?” inquired Scott, flattening his 
nose against the window-pane to see whether it still 
hurt him. 

“ He asked me if I were too rich and proud to play 
with other children. I was so surprised; and I said 
that we were not rich at all, and that I never had had 
any money, and that I was not a bit proud, and would 
love to stay and play with him if Kathleen permitted 
me.” 

“ Did Kathleen let you? Of course she didn’t.” 

“I told her what the boy said and I showed her the 
boy, but she wouldn’t let me stay and play.” 

“ Kathleen’s a pig.” 

“ No, she isn’t, poor dear. They make her act that 
way—Mr. Tappan makes her. Our grandfather didn’t 
want us to have friends.” 

“ll tell you what,” said Scott impatiently, “ when 
I’m old enough, I’ll have other boys to play with 
whether Kathleen and—and that Thing—likes it or 
not.” 

The Thing was the Half Moon Trust Company. 

Geraldine glanced back at the portrait over the 
divan : 

*Do you know,” she ventured, “that I believe 
mother would have let us have fun.” 

“T’ll bet father would, too,” said Scott. ‘ Some- 
times I feel like kicking over everything in the house.” 

“So do I and I generally do it,” observed Geral- 
dine, lifting a slim, graceful leg and sending a sofa- 
cushion flying. 

When they had kicked all the cushions from the 

12 


THE SEAGRAVES 








sofas and divans, Scott suggested that they go out and 
help Schmitt, the gardener, who, at that moment, came 
into view on the lawn, followed by Olsen wheeling a 
barrowful of seedlings in wooden trays. 

So the children descended to the main hall and 
marched through it, defying Lang, the second man, 
refusing hats and overshoes; and presently were dig- 
ging blissfully in a flower-bed under the delighted di- 
rections of Schmitt. 

“What are these things, anyway?” demanded 
Scott, ramming down the moist earth around a fragile 
rootlet from which trailed a green leaf or two. 

“ Dot vas a verpena, sir,” explained the old gar- 
dener. “ Now you shall vatch him grow.” 

The boy remained squatting for several minutes, 
staring hard at the seedling. 

*T can’t see it grow,” he said to his sister, “ and 
I’m not going to sit here all day waiting. Come on!” 
And he gave her a fraternal slap. 

Geraldine wiped her hands on her knickerbockers 
and started after him; and away they raced around the 
house, past the fountains, under trees by the coach- 
house, across paths and lawns and flower-beds, tear- 
ing about like a pair of demented kittens. They 
frisked, climbed trees, chased each other, wrestled, 
clutched, tumbled, got mad, made up, and finally, re- 
moving shoes and stockings, began a game of leap- 
frog. 

Horror-stricken nurses arrived bearing dry towels 
and footgear, and were received with fury and a volley 
of last year’s horse-chestnuts. And when the enemy had 
been handsomely repulsed, the children started on a 
tour of exploration, picking their way with tender, 
naked feet to the northern hedge. 

13 


THE DANGER MARK 








Here Geraldine mounted on Scott’s shoulders and 
drew herself up to the iron railing which ran along the 
top of the granite-capped wall between hedge and 
street; and Scott followed her, both pockets stuffed 
‘ with chestnuts which he had prudently gathered in the 
shrubbery. 

In the street below there were few passers-by. Each 
~ individual wayfarer, however, received careful atten- 
- tion, Scott having divided the chestnuts, and the aim 
~ of both children being excellent. 

They had been awaiting a new victim for some time, 
when suddenly Geraldine pinched her brother with 
eager satisfaction: 

“Oh, Scott! there comes that boy I told you 
about!” 

“What boy?” 

“The one who asked me if I was too rich and proud 
to play with him. And that must be his sister; they 
look alike.” 

“ All right,” said Scott; “ we'll give them a volley. 
You take the nurse and I'll fix the boy. . . . Ready. 
ipa iret” 

The ambuscade was perfectly successful; the nurse 
halted and looked up, expressing herself definitely upon 
the manners and customs of the twins; the boy, who ap- 
peared to be amazingly agile, seized a swinging wis- 
taria vine, clambered up the wall, and, clinging to the 
outside of the iron railing, informed Scott that he 
would punch his head when a pleasing opportunity pre- 
sented itself, 

* All right,” retorted Scott; “come in and do it 
now.” 

“'That’s all very well for you to say when you 
know I can’t climb over this railing!” 

14 


THE SEAGRAVES 








* T’ll tell you what I'll do,” said Scott, thrilled at 
the chance of another boy on the grounds even if 
he had to fight him; “Tl tell you what!” sinking 
his voice to an eager whisper; “ You run away from 
your nurse as soon as you get into the Park and 
T’ll be at the front door and Ill let you in. Will 
you? ” 

“Oh, please!”? whispered Geraldine; “ and bring 
your sister, too!” 

The boy stared at her knickerbockers. ‘Do you 
want to fight my sister? ”’ he asked. 

“TI? Oh, no, no, no. You can fight Scott if you 
like, and your sister and I will have such fun watching 
you. Will you?” 

His nurse was calling him to descend, in tones agi- 
tated and peremptory; the boy hesitated, scowled at 
Scott, looked uncertainly at Geraldine, then shot a 
hasty and hostile glance at the interior of the mysteri- 
ous Seagrave estate. Curiosity overcame him; also, 
perhaps, a natural desire for battle. 

“Yes,” he said to Scott, “Ill come back and 
punch your head for you.” 

And very deftly, clinging like a squirrel to the 
pendant wistaria, he let himself down into the street 
again. 

The Seagrave twins, intensely excited, watched 
them as far as Fifth Avenue, then rapidly drawing on 
their shoes and stockings, scrambled down to the 
shrubbery and raced for the house. Through it they 
passed like a double whirlwind; feeble and perfunctory 
resistance was offered by their nurses. 

“ Get out of my way!” said Geraldine fiercely ; “ do 
you think I’m going to miss the first chance for some 
fun that I’ve ever had in all my life?” | 

15 


THE DANGER MARK 








At the same moment, through: the glass-sheeted 
grill Scott discovered two small figures dashing up the 
drive to the porte-cochére. And he turned on Lang 
like a wild cat. 

Lang, the man at the door, was disposed to defend 
his post; Scott prepared to fly at him, but his sister 
intervened : 

“Oh, Lang,” she pleaded, jumping up and down 
in an agony of apprehension, “ please, please, let them 
in! We’ve never had any friends.” She caught his 
arm piteously; he looked fearfully embarrassed, for 
the Seagrave livery was still new to him; nor, during 
his brief service, had he fully digested the significance 
of the policy which so rigidly guarded these little chil- 
dren lest rumour from without apprise them of their 
financial future and the contaminating realisation un- 
dermine their simplicity. 

As he stood, undecided, Geraldine suddenly jerked 
his hand from the bronze knob and Scott flung open 
the door. 

“Come on! Quick!” he cried; and the next mo- 
ment four small pairs of feet were flying through the 
hall, echoing lightly across the terrace, then skimming 
the lawn to the sheltering shrubbery beyond. 

“The thing to do,” panted Scott, “is to keep out 
of sight.” He seized his guests by the arms and drew 
them behind the rhododendrons. “ Now,” he said, 
“what’s your name? You, I mean!” 

“Duane Mallett,” replied the boy, breathless. 
“'That’s my sister, Naida. Let’s wait a moment be- 
fore we begin to fight; Naida and I had to run like 
fury to get away from our nurse.” 

Naida was examining Geraldine with an interest 
almost respectful. 

16 


THE SEAGRAVES 








“1 wish they’d let me dress like a boy,” she said. 
“ Tt’s fun, isn’t it? ” 

“Yes. They don’t let me do it; I just did it,” re- 
plied Geraldine. “ Ill get you a suit of Scott’s clothes, 
if you like. I can get the boxing-gloves at the same 
time. Shall I, Scott? ” 

“Go ahead,” said Scott; “we can pretend there 
are four boys here.” And, to Duane, as Geraldine sped 
cautiously away on her errand: “ That’s a thing I 
never did before.” 

“What thing?” 

“Play with three boys all by myself. Kathleen— 
who is Mrs. Severn, our guardian—is always with us 
when. we are permitted to speak to other boys and 
girls.” 

“'That’s babyish,” remarked Duane in frank dis- 
gust. “ You are a mollycoddle.” 

The deep red of mortification spread over Scott’s 
face; he looked shyly at Naida, doubly distressed that 
a girl should hear the degrading term applied to him. 
The small girl returned his gaze without a particle of 
expression in her face. 

“ Mollycoddles,” continued Duane cruelly, “do the 
sort of things you do. You’re one.” 

““I—don’t want to be one,” stammered Scott. 
* How can I help it?” 

Duane ignored the appeal. “ Playing with three 
boys isn’t anything,” he said. “I play with forty 
every day.” 

**'W-where? ” asked Scott, overwhelmed. 

“In school, of course—at recess—and before nine, 
and after one. We have fine times. School’s all right. 
Don’t you even go to school? ” 

Scott shook his head, too ashamed to speak. 

17 


THE DANGER MARK 








Naida, with a flirt of her kilted skirts, had abruptly 
turned her back on him; yet he was miserably cer- 
tain she was listening to her brother’s merciless cat- 
echism. 

“J suppose you don’t even know how to play 
hockey,” commented Duane contemptuously. 

There was no answer. 

“What do you do? Play with dolls? Oh, what a 
molly!” 

Scott raised his head; he had grown quite white. 
Naida, turning, saw the look on the boy’s face. 

“ Duane doesn’t mean that,” she said; “he’s only 
teasing.” 

Geraldine came hurrying back with the boxing- 
gloves and a suit of Scott’s very best clothes, halting 
when she perceived the situation, for Scott had walked 
up to Duane, and the boys stood glaring at one an- 
other, hands doubling up into fists. 

* You think I’m a molly?” asked Scott in a curi- 
ously still voice. 7 

“ Yes, I do.” 

“ Oh, Scott!” cried Geraldine, pushing in between 
them, “ you’ll have to hammer him well for that és 

Naida turned and shoved her brother aside: 

JT don’t want you to fight him,” she said. “I 
like him.” 

“Oh, but they must fight, you know,” explained 
Geraldine earnestly. “If we didn’t fight, we’d really 
be what you call us. Put on Scott’s clothes, Naida, 
and while our brothers are fighting, you and I will 
wrestle to prove that I’m not a mollycoddle——” 

“J don’t want to,” said Naida tremulously. “I 
like you, too ‘s 

“Well, you’re one if you don’t!” retorted Geral- 

18 








THE SEAGRAVES 








dine. ‘You can like anybody and have fun fighting 
them, too.” 

* Put on those clothes, Naida,” said Duane sternly. 
“Are you going to take a dare? ” 

So she retired very unwillingly into the hedge to 
costume herself while the two boys invested their fists 
with the soft chamois gloves of combat. 

* We won't bother to shake hands,” observed Scott. 
“ Are you ready? ” 

“Yes, you will, too,” insisted Geraldine; “ shake 
hands before you begin to fight!” 

“TI won’t,” retorted Scott sullenly; “ shake hands 
with anybody who calls me—what he did.” 

“Very well then; if you don’t, I’ll put on those 
gloves and fight you myself.” 

Duane’s eyes flew wide open and he gazed upon 
Geraldine with newly mixed emotions. She walked over 
to her brother and said: 

“Remember what Howker told us that father used 
to say—that squabbling is disgraceful but a good fight 
is all right. Duane called you a silly name. Instead 
of disputing about it and calling each other names, 
you ought to settle it with a fight and be friends after- 
ward. . .. Isn’t that so, Duane? ” 

Duane seemed doubtful. 

*Isn’t it so?” she repeated fiercely, stepping so 
swiftly in front of him that he jumped back. 

“Yes, I guess so,” he admitted; and the sudden 
smile which Geraldine flashed on him completed his sub- 
jection. 

Naida, in her boy’s clothes, came out, her hands 
in her pockets, strutting a little and occasionally bend- 
ing far over to catch a view of herself as best she 
might. 

19 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ All ready!” cried Geraldine; “ begin! Look out, 
Naida; I’m going to throw you.” 

Behind her the two boys touched gloves, then Scott 
rushed his man. 

At the same moment Geraldine seized Naida. 

“We are not to pull hair,” she said; “ remember! 
Now, dear, look out for yourself!” 

Of that classic tournament between the clans of Mal- 
lett and Seagrave the chronicles are lacking. Doubt- 
less their ancestors before them joined joyously in 
battle, confident that all details of their prowess would 
be carefully recorded by the family minstrel. 

But the battle of that Saturday noon hour was wit- 
nessed only by the sparrows, who were too busy lug- 
ging bits of straw and twine to half-completed nests 
in the cornices of the House of Seagrave, to pay much 
attention to the combat of the Seagrave children, who 
had gone quite mad with the happiness of companion- 
ship and were expressing it with all their might. 

Naida’s dark curls mingled with the grass several 
times before Geraldine comprehended that her new 
companion was absurdly at her mercy; and then she 
seized her with all the desperation of first possession 
and kissed her hard. 

“It’s ended,” breathed Geraldine tremulously, 
“and nobody gained the victory and—you will love 
me, won’t you? ” 

“TI don’t know—I’m all dirt.” She looked at Ger- 
aldine, bewildered by the passion of the lonely child’s 
caresses. “ Yes—I do love you, Geraldine. Oh, look 
at those boys! How perfectly disgraceful! They 
must stop—make them stop, Geraldine! ” 

Hair on end, grass-stained, dishevelled, and un- 
speakably dirty, the boys were now sparring for 

20 


THE SEAGRAVES 








breath. Grime and perspiration streaked their coun- 
tenances. Duane Mallett wore a humorously tinted eye 
and a prehensile upper lip; Scott’s nose had again 
yielded to the coy persuasion of a left-handed jab and 
the proud blood of the Seagraves once more offended 
high heaven on that April day. 

Geraldine, one arm imprisoning Naida’s waist, 
walked coolly in between them: 

“Don’t let’s fight any more. The thing to do is to 
get Mrs. Bramton to give you enough for four to eat 
and bring it back here. Scott, please shake hands 
with Duane.” 

“IT wasn’t licked,” muttered Scott. 

“ Neither was I,’ said Duane. 

“* Nobody was licked by anybody,” announced Ger- 
aldine. “Do get something to eat, Scott; Naida and 
I are starving!” 

After some hesitation the boys touched gloves re- 
spectfully, and Scott shook off his mitts, and started 
for the kitchen. 

And there, to his horror and surprise, he was con- 
fronted by Mrs. Severn, black hat, crape veil, and 
gloves still on, evidently that instant arrived from 
those occult and, as the children supposed, distant 
bournes of Staten Island, where the supreme mystery 
of all had been at work. 

“Oh, Scott!” she exclaimed tremulously, “ what 
on earth has happened? What is all this that Mrs. 
Farren and Howker have been telling me?” 

The boy stood petrified. Then there surged over 
him the memory of his brief happiness in these new 
companions—a happiness now to be snatched away ere 
scarcely tasted. Into the child’s dirty, disfigured face 
came a hunted expression; he looked about for an ave- 

21 


THE DANGER MARK 








nue of escape, and Kathleen Severn caught him at the 
same instant and drew him to her. 

* What is it, Scott? Tell me, darling!” 

“ Nothing. . . . Yes, there is something. I opened 
the front door and let a strange boy and girl in to play 
with us, and I’ve just been fighting with him, and we 
were having such good times—I—” his voice broke— 
“TI can’t bear to have them go—-so soon " 

Kathleen looked at him for a moment, speechless 
with consternation. Then: 

“Where are they, Scott?” 

“In the—the hedge.” 

“ Out there? ” 

6 Yes.” 

“ Who are they? ” 

“Their names are Duane Mallett and Naida Mal- 
lett. We got them to run away from their nurse. 
Duane’s such a bully fellow.” A sob choked him. 

“Come with me at once,” said Kathleen. 

Behind the rhododendrons smiling peace was ex- 
tending its pinions; Duane had produced a pocketful 
of jack-stones, and the three children were now seated 
on the grass, Naida manipulating the jacks with soiled 
but deft fingers. 

Duane was saying to Geraldine: 

“It’s funny that you didn’t know you were rich. 
Everybody says so, and all the nurses in the Park talk 
about it every time you and Scott walk past.” 

“Tf I’m rich,” said Geraldine, “ why don’t I have 
more money? ” 

** Don’t they let you have as much as you want? ” 

* No—only twenty-five cents every month... . 
It’s my turn, Naida! Oh, bother! I missed. Go on, 
Duane——” 





22 


THE SEAGRAVES 








And, glancing up, her tongue clove to the roof of 
her mouth as Kathleen Severn, in her mourning veil 
and gown, came straight up to where they sat. 

“‘ Geraldine, dear, the grass is too damp to sit on,” 
said Mrs. Severn quietly. She turned to the youthful 
guests, who had hastily risen. 

“You are Naida Mallett, it seems; and you are 
Duane? Please come in now and wash and dress prop- 
erly, because I am going to telephone to your mother 
and ask her if you may remain to luncheon and play 
in the nursery afterward.” 

Dazed, the children silently followed her; one of 
her arms lay loosely about the shoulders of her own 
charges; one encircled Naida’s neck. Duane walked 
cautiously beside his sister. 

In the house the nurses took charge; Geraldine, 
turning on the stairs, looked back at Kathleen Severn. 

“ Are you really going to let them stay?” 

“ Yes, I am, darling.” 

“ And—and may we play together all alone in the 
nursery? ” 

“JT think so. . . . I think so, dear.” 

She ran back back down the stairs and impetuously 
flung herself into Kathleen’s arms; then danced away 
to join the others in the blessed regions above. 

Mrs. Severn moved slowly to the telephone, and first 
called up and reassured Mrs. Mallett, who, however, 
knew nothing about the affair, as the nurse was still 
scouring the Park for her charges. 

Then Mrs. Severn called up the Half Moon Trust 
Company and presently was put into communication 
with Colonel Mallett, the president. To him she told 
the entire story, and added: 

“Tt was inevitable that the gossip of servants 

3 23 


THE DANGER MARK 








should enlighten the children sooner or later. The 
irony of it all is that this gossip filtered in here through 
your son, Duane. That is how the case stands, Colonel 
Mallett; and I have used my judgment and permitted 
the children this large liberty which they have long 
needed, believe me, long, long needed. I hope that your 
trust officer, Mr. Tappan, will approve.” 

“ Good Lord!” said Colonel Mallett over the wire. 
“ Tappan won’t stand for it! You know that he won’t, 
Mrs. Severn. I suppose, if he consults us, we can call 
a directors’ meeting and consider this new phase of 
the case.” 

“You ought to; the time is already here when the 
children should no longer suffer such utter isolation. 
They must make acquaintances, they must have friends, 
they should go to parties like other children—they 
ought to be given outside schooling sooner or later. 
All of which questions must be taken up by your direc- 
tors as soon as possible, because my children are fast 
getting out of hand—fast getting away from me; and 
before I know it I shall have a young man and a young 
girl to account for—and to account to, colonel e 

“Tl sift out the whole matter with Mr. Tappan; 
T’ll speak to Mr. Grandcourt and Mr. Beekman to- 
night. Until you hear from us, no more visitors for 
the children. By the way, is that matter—the one we 
talked over last month—definitely settled?” 

“Yes. I can’t help being worried by the inclina- 
tion she displays. It frightens me in such a child.” 

“Scott doesn’t show it?” 

“No. He hates anything like that.” 

“Do the servants thoroughly understand your 
orders? ” 

“I’m a little troubled. I have given orders that no 

24 





THE SEAGRAVES 








-more brandied peaches are to be made or kept in the 
house. The child was perfectly truthful about it. She 
admitted filling her cologne bottle with the syrup and 
sipping it after she was supposed to be asleep.” 

“Have you found out about the sherry she stole 
from the kitchen? ” 

“Yes. She told me that for weeks she had kept it 
hidden and soaked a lump of sugar in it every night. 
. . - She is absolutely truthful, colonel. I’ve tried to 
make her understand the danger.” 

“ All right. Good-bye.” Kathleen Severn hung 
up the receiver with a deep indrawn breath. 

From the nursery above came a joyous clamour 
and trampling and shouting. 

Suddenly she covered her face with her black- 
gloved hands. 


CHAPTER II 
IN TRUST 


Tue enfranchisement of the Seagrave twins pro- 
ceeded too slowly to satisfy their increasing desire for 
personal liberty and their fast-growing impatience of 
restraint. 

Occasionally, a few carefully selected and assorted 
children were permitted to visit them in relays, and 
play in the nursery for limited periods without the 
personal supervision of Kathleen or the nurses; but no 
serious innovation was attempted, no radical step 
taken without authority from old Remsen Tappan, the 
trust officer of the great Half Moon Trust Company. 

There could be no arguing with Mr. Tappan. 

Shortly before Anthony Seagrave died he had writ- 
ten to his old friend Tappan: “If I live, I shall see to 
it that my grandchildren know nothing of the fortune 
awaiting them until they become of age—which will 
be after I am ended. Meanwhile, plain food and cloth- 
ing, wholesome home seclusion from the promiscuity 
of modern child life, and an exhaustive education in 
every grace, fashion, and accomplishment of body and 
intellect is the training I propose for the development 
in them of the only thing in the world worth cultivating 
—unterrified individualism. 

“ The ignorance which characterises the conduct of 
modern institutes of education reduces us all to one 
mindless level, reproducing ad nauseam what is known 


26 


IN TRUST 








as ‘average citizens.’ This nation is already crawl- 
ing with them; art, religion, letters, government, 
business, human ideals remain embryonic because the 
‘average citizen” can conceive nothing higher, can 
comprehend nothing loftier even when the few who have 
escaped the deadly levelling grind of modern methods 
of education attempt to teach the masses to think for 
themselves. 

“ That is bad enough in itself—but add to cut-and- 
dried pedagogy the outrageous liberty which modern 
pupils are permitted in school and college, and add to 
that the unheard-of luxury in which they live—and the 
result is stupidity and utter ruin. 

“ My babies must have discipline, system, frugal- 
ity, and leisure for individual development drilled into 
them. I do not wish them to be ignorant of one single 
modern grace and accomplishment; mind and body 
must be trained together like a pair of Morgan colts. 

“ But I will not have them victims of pedagogy; I 
will not have them masters of their time and money 
until they are of age; I will not permit them to choose 
companions or pursuits for their leisure until they are 
fitted to do so. 

“Tf there is in them, latent, any propensity toward 
viciousness—any unawakened desire for that which has 
been my failing—hard work from dawn till dark is the 
antidote. An exhausted child is beyond temptation. 

“Tf I pass forward, Tappan, before you—and it is 
likely because I am twenty years older and I have lived 
unwisely—I shall arrange matters in such shape that 
you can carry out something of what I have tried to 
begin, far better than I, old friend; for I am strong 
in theory and very weak in practice; they are such dear 
little things! And when they cry to be taken up— 

27 


THE DANGER MARK 








and a modern trained nurse says ‘No! let them cry!’ 
good God! Remsen, I sometimes sneak into their thor- 
oughly modern and scientifically arranged nursery, 
which resembles an operating room in a brand-new hos- 
pital, and I take up my babies and rock them in my 
arms, terrified lest that modern and highly trained 
nurse discover my infraction of sanitary rule and pre- 
cept. 

“ I don’t know; babies were born, and survived cra- 
dles and mothers’ arms and kisses long before sterilised 
milk and bacilli were invented. 

“ You see I am weak in more ways than one. But 
I do mean to give them every chance. It isn’t that 
these old arms ache for them, that this rather tired 
heart weakens when they cry for God knows what, and 
modern science says let them cry/—it is that, deep in 
me, Tappan, a heathenish idea persists that what they 
need more than hygienics and scientific discipline is 
some of that old-fashioned love—love which rocks them 
when it is not good for them—love which overfeeds 
them sometimes so that they yell with old-fashioned 
colic—love which ventures a bacilli-laden kiss. Friend, 
friend—I am very unfit! It will be well for them when. 
I move on. Only try to love them, Tappan. And if 
you ever doubt, kill them with indulgence, rather than 
with hygiene! ” 


He died of pneumonia a few weeks later. He had 
no chance. Remsen Tappan picked up the torch from 
the fallen hand and, blowing it into a brisk blaze, 
shuffled forward to light a path through life for the 
highly sterilised twins. 

So the Half Moon Trust became father and mother 
to the Seagrave children; and Mr. Tappan as dry 

28 


IN TRUST 








nurse prescribed the brand of intellectual pap for them 
and decided in what manner it should be administered. 

Now home tuition and the “culture of the indi- 
widool” was a personal hobby of Mr. Tappan, and 
promiscuous schools his abomination. Had not his 
own son, Peter Stuyvesant Tappan, been reared upon 
unsteady legs to magnificent physical and intellectual 
manhood under this theory? 

So there was to be no outside education for the 
youthful Seagraves; from the nursery schoolroom no 
chance of escape remained. As they grew older they 
became wild to go to school; stories of schoolrooms and 
playgrounds and studies and teachers and jolly fellow- 
ship and vacations, brought to them from outside by 
happier children, almost crazed them with the longing 
for it. 

It was hard for them when their little friends the 
Malletts were sent abroad to school; Naida, now aged 
twelve, to a convent, and Duane, who was now fifteen, 
three years older than the Seagrave twins, accompanied 
his mother and a tutor, later to enter some school of 
art in Paris and develop whatever was in him. For 
like all parents, Duane’s had been terribly excited over 
his infantile efforts at picture-making — one of the 
commonest and earliest developed of talents, but which 
never fails to amaze and delight less gifted parents 
and which continues to overstock the world with medi- 
ocre artists. 

So it was arranged that Colonel Mallett should 
spend every summer abroad with his wife to watch the 
incubation of Duane’s Titianesque genius and Naida’s 
unbelievable talent for music; and when the children 
came to bid good-bye to the Seagrave twins, they seized 
each other with frantic embraces, vowing lifelong fidel- 


29 


THE DANGER MARK 








ity. Alas! it is those who depart who forget first ; and 
at the end of a year, Geraldine’s and Scott’s letters 
remained unanswered. 

At the age of thirteen, after an extraordinary meet- 
ing of the directors of the Half Moon Trust Company, 
it was formally decided that a series of special tutors 
should now be engaged to carry on to the bitter end 
the Tappan-Seagrave system of home culture; and the 
road to college was definitely closed. 

“I want my views understood,” said Mr. Tappan, 
addressing the board of solemn-visaged directors as- 
sembled in session to determine upon the fate of two 
motherless little children. ‘ Indiwidoolism is nurtured 
in excloosion; the elimination of the extraneous is nec- 
essary for the dewelopment of indiwidoolism. I regard 
the human indiwidool as sacred. Like a pearl ”—he 
pronounced it “ poil ”—* it can grow in beauty and 
symmetry and purity and polish only when nourished 
in seclusion. Indiwidoolism is a poil without price; and 
the natal mansion, gentlemen—if I may be permitted 
the simulcritude—is its oyster. 

“My old friend, Anthony Seagrave, shared with 
me this unalterable conwiction. I remember in the 
autumn of 1859 re 

The directors settled themselves in their wadded 
arm-chairs; several yawned; some folded their hands 
over their ample stomachs. The June atmosphere was 
pleasantly conducive to the sort of after-luncheon in- 
trospection which is easily soothed by monotones of the 
human voice. 

And while Mr. Tappan droned on and on, some of 
the directors watched him with one eye half open, think- 
ing of other things, and some listened, both eyes half 
closed, thinking of nothing at all. 

30 





IN TRUST 








Many considered Mr. Tappan a very terrible old 
man, though why terrible, unless the most rigid hon- 
esty and bigoted devotion to duty terrifies, nobody 
seemed to know. 

Long Island Dutch—with all that it implies—was 
the dull stock he rooted in. Born a poor farmer’s son, 
with a savage passion for learning, he almost de- 
stroyed his eyesight in lonely study under the flicker of 
tallow dips. All that had ever come to him of knowl- 
edge came in these solitary vigils. Miry and sweating 
from the plough he mastered the classics, law, chemistry, 
engineering; and finally emerging heavily from the 
reek of Long Island fertiliser, struck with a heavy 
surety at Fortune and brought her to her knees amidst 
a shower of gold. And all alone he gathered it in. 

On Coenties Slip his warehouse still bore the le- 
gend: “ R. Tappan: Iron.” All that he had ever done 
he had done alone. He knew of no other way; believed 
in no other way. 

Plain living, plainer clothing, tireless thinking un- 
disturbed—that had been his childhood; and it had 
suited him. 

Never but once had he made any concession to cus- 
tom and nature, and that was only when, desiring an 
heir, he was obliged to enter into human partnership 
to realise the wish. 

His son was what his father had made him under 
the iron cult of solitary development; and now, the 
father, loyal in his own way to the memory of his old 
friend Anthony Seagrave, meant to do his full duty 
toward the orphaned grandchildren. 

So it came to pass that tutors and specialists re- 
placed Kathleen in the schoolroom; and these minis- 
tered to the twin “poils,’ who were now fretting 

4 31 


THE DANGER MARK 








through their thirteenth year, mad with desire for 
boarding-school. 

Four languages besides their own were adroitly 
stuffed into them; nor were letters, arts, and sciences 
neglected, nor the mundane and social patter, accom- 
plishments, and refinements, including poise, pose, and 
deportment. 

Specialists continued to guide them indoors and 
out; they rode every morning at eight with a special- 
ist; they drove in the Park between four and five with 
the most noted of four-in-hand specialists; fencing, 
sparring, wrestling, swimming, gymnastics, were all 
supervised by specialists in those several very impor- 
tant and scientific arts; and specialists also taught them 
hygiene: how to walk, sit, breathe; how to masticate; 
how to relax after the manner of the domestic cat. 

They had memory lessons; lessons in personal 
physiology, and in first aid to themselves. 

Specialists cared for their teeth, their eyes, their 
hair, their skin, their hands and feet. 

Everything that was taught them, done for them, 
indirectly educated them in the science of self-consid- 
eration and deepened an unavoidably natural belief in 
their own overwhelming importance. They had not 
been born so. 

But in the house of Seagrave everything revolved 
around and centred in them; everything began for them 
and ended for them alone. They had no chance. 

True, they were also instructed in theology and re- 
ligion; they became well grounded in the elements of 
both,—laws, by-laws, theory, legends, proverbs, tru- 
isms, and even a few abstract truths. But there was no 
meaning in either to these little prisoners of self. Se- 
clusion is an enemy to youth; solitude its destruction. 


32 


IN TRUST 








When the twins were fifteen they went to their first 
party. A week of superficial self-restraint and inward 
delirium was their preparation, a brief hour of passive 
bewilderment the realisation. Dazed by the sight and 
touch and clamor of the throng, they moved and spoke 
as in a vision. The presence of their own kind in such 
numbers confused them; overwhelmed, they found no 
voices to answer the call of happiness. Their capacity 
to respond was too limited. 

As in a dream they were removed earlier than any- 
body else—taken away by a footman and a maid with 
decorous pomp and circumstance, carefully muffled in 
motor robes, and embedded in a limousine. 

The daily papers, with that lofty purpose which 
always characterises them, recorded next morning the 
important fact that the famous Seagrave twins had 
appeared at their first party. 


Between the ages of fifteen and sixteen the twins 
might have entered Harvard, for the entrance exam- 
inations were tried on both children, and both passed 
brilliantly. 

For a year or two they found a substitute for hap- 
piness in pretending that they were really at college; 
they simulated, day by day, the life that they supposed 
was led there; they became devoted to their new game. 
Excited through tales told by tutor and friend, they de- 
veloped a passionate loyalty for their college and class ; 
they were solemnly elected to coveted societies, they 
witnessed Harvard victories, they strove fiercely for 
honours; their ideals were lofty, their courage clean 
and high. 

So completely absorbed in the pretence did they 
become that their own tutors ventured to suggest to 

33 


THE DANGER MARK 








Mr. Tappan that such fiercely realistic mimicry de- 
served to be rewarded. Unfortunately, the children 
heard of this; but the Trust Officer’s short answer 
killed their interest in playing at happiness, and their 
junior year began listlessly and continued without am- 
bition. There was no heart in the pretence. Their in- 
terest had died. They studied mechanically because 
they were obliged to; they no longer cared. 

That winter they went to a few more parties—not 
many. However, they were gingerly permitted to wit- 
ness their first play, and later, the same year, were 
taken to “ Lohengrin ” at the opera. 

During the play, which was a highly moral one, 
they sat watching, listening, wide-eyed as children. 

At the opera Geraldine’s impetuous soul soared 
straight up to paradise with the first heavenly strains, 
and remained there far above the rigid, breathless lit- 
tle body, bolt upright in its golden sarcophagus of the 
grand tier. 

Her physical consciousness really seemed to have 
fled. Until the end she sat unaware of the throngs, of 
Scott and Kathleen whispering behind her, of several 
tall, broad-shouldered, shy young fellows who came 
into their box between the acts and tried to discuss 
anything at all with her, only to find her blind, deaf, 
and dumb. 

These were the only memories of her first opera— 
a confused, chaotic brilliancy, paradise revealed: and 
long, long afterward, the carriage flying up Fifth 
Avenue through darkness all gray with whirling snow. 


Their eighteenth year dragged, beginning in physi- 
cal and intellectual indifference, but promised stormily 
as they became more accustomed to glimpses of an out-- 

34 


IN TRUST 








side world——a world teeming with restless young people 
in unbelievable quantities. 

Scott had begun to develop two traits: laziness and 
a tendency to sullen, unspoken wrath. He took more 
liberty than was officially granted him — more than 
Geraldine dared take—and came into collision with 
Kathleen more often now. He boldly overstayed his 
leave in visiting his few boy friends for an afternoon; 
he returned home alone on foot after dusk, telling the 
chauffeur to go to the devil. Again and again he re- 
mained out to dinner without permission, and, finally, 
one afternoon quietly and stealthily cut his studies, 
slipped out of the house, and reappeared about dinner- 
time, excited, inclined to be boisterously defiant, admit- 
ting that he had borrowed enough money from a friend 
to go to a matinée with some other boys, and that he 
would do it again if he chose. 

Also, to Kathleen’s horror, he swore deliberately 
at table when Mr. Tappan’s name was mentioned; and 
Geraldine looked up with startled brown eyes, divining 
in her brother something new—something that uncon- 
sciously they both had long, long waited for—the revolt 
of youth ere youth had been crushed for ever from the 
body which encased it. 

* Damn him,” repeated Scott, a little frightened at 
his own words and attitude; “ I’ve had enough of this 
baby business; I’m eighteen and I want two things: 
some friends to go about with freely, and some money 
to do what other boys do. And you can tell Mr. Tap- 
pan, for all I care.” 

* What would you buy with money that is not al- 
ready provided for, Scott?” asked Bathivcn, gently 
ignoring his excited profanity. 

“TI don’t know; there is no pleasure in using things 

35 


THE DANGER MARK 








which that fool of a Trust Company votes to let you 
have. Anyway, what I want is liberty and money.” 

“ What would you do with what you call liberty, 
dear? ” 

“Do? Ld—I’d—well, I’d go shooting if I wanted 
to. I’d buy a gun and go off somewhere after ducks.” 

“ But your father’s old club on the Chesapeake is 
open to you. Shall I ask Mr. Tappan?” 

“Oh, yes; I know,” he sneered, “and Mr. Tappan 
would send some chump of a tutor there to teach me. 
I don’t want to be taught how to hit ducks. I want to 
find out for myself. I don’t care for that sort of 
thing,” he repeated savagely; “I just ache to go off 
somewhere with a boy of my own age where there’s no 
club and no preserve and no tutor; and where I can 
knock about and get whatever there is to get without 
anybody’s help.” 

Geraldine said: “ You have more liberty now than 
I have, Scott. What are you howling for?” 

* The only real liberty I have take! Anyway, you 
have enough for a girl of your age. And you'd better 
shut up.” 

“TI won’t shut up,” she retorted irritably. “TI 
want liberty as much as you do. If I had any, I’d go 
to every play and opera in New York. And I’d go 
about with my friends and I’d have gowns fitted, and 
I'd have tea at Sherry’s, and I’d shop and go to mati- 
nées and to the Exchange, and I’d be elected a member 
of the Commonwealth Club and play basket-ball there, 
and swim, and lunch and—and then have another fit- 
tin a 

“Is that what you’d do with your liberty?” he 
sneered. ‘“ Well, I don’t wonder old Tappan doesn’t 
give you any money.” 





36 


IN TRUST 








“IT do need money and decent gowns. I’m sick of 
the frumpy prunes-and-prisms frocks that Kathleen 
makes me wear ey 

Kathleen’s troubled laugh interrupted her: 

** Dearest, I do the best I can on the allowance made 
you by Mr. Tappan. His ideas on modern feminine ap- 
parel are perhaps not yours or mine.” 

“TI should say not!” returned Geraldine angrily. 
“ There isn’t a girl of my age who dresses as horridly 
as I do. I tell you, Mr. Tappan has got to let me 
have money enough to dress decently. If he doesn’t, 
I—I’ll begin to give him as much trouble as Scott does 
—more, too!” 

She set her teeth and stared at her glass of water. 

“What about my coming-out gown?” she asked. 

**T have written him about your début,” said Kath- 
leen soothingly. 

“Oh! What did the old beast say?” 

“He writes,” began Kathleen pleasantly, “that he 
considers eighteen an unsuitable age for a young girl 
to make her bow to New York society.” 

“Did he say that? ” exclaimed Geraldine, furious. 
“Very well; I shall write to Colonel Mallett and tell 
him I simply will not endure it any longer. I’ve had 
enough education; I’m suffocated with it! Besides, I 
dislike it. I want a dinner-gown and a ball-gown and 
my hair waved and dressed on top of my head instead 
of bunched half way! I want to have an engagement 
pad—I want to have places to go to—people expect- 
ing me; I want silk stockings and pretty underclothes! 
Doesn’t that old fool understand what a girl wants and 
needs? ” 

She half rose from her seat at the table, pushing 
away the fruit which a servant offered; and, laying her 


37 





THE DANGER MARK 








hands flat on the cloth, leaned forward, eyes flashing 
ominously. 

“I’m getting tired of poet she said. “ ~ it goes 
on, I’ll probably run away.” 

“So will I,” said Scott, “but I’ve eRe reasons. 
They haven’t done anything to you. You’re making 
a terrible row about nothing.” 

“Yes, they have! They’ve suppressed me, stifled 
me, bottled me up, tinkered at me, overgroomed’ me, 
dressed me ridiculously, and stuffed my mind. And 
I’m starved all the time! O Kathleen, I’m hungry! 
hungry! Can’t you understand? 

“ They’ve made me into something I was not. [ve 
never yet had a chance to be myself. Why couldn’t 
they let me be it? I know—I know that when at last 
they set me free because they have to—I—I’ll act like 
a fool; I’ll not know what to do with my liberty—Tll 
not know how to use it—how to understand or be under- 
stood. . . . Tell Mr. Tappan that! Tell him that it is 
all silly and wrong! Tell him that a young girl never 
forgets when other girls laugh at her because she never 
had any money, and dresses like a frump, and wears her 
hair like a baby! . . . And if he doesn’t listen to us, 
some day Scott and I will show him and the others 
how we feel about it! I can make as much trouble as 
Scott can; I’ll do it, too——” 

“ Geraldine! ” 

“Very well. I’m boiling inside when I think of— 
some things. The injustice of a lot of hateful, snuffy 
old men deciding on what sort of underclothes a young 
girl shall wear! . . . And I will make my début! I 
will! I will!” 

* Dearest 4 

“Yes, I will! Ill write to them and complain 

38 





IN TRUST 








of Mr. Tappan’s stingy, unjust treatment of us 
both ee 

“Let me do the writing, dear,” said Kathleen 
quietly. And she rose from the table and left the din- 
ing-room, both arms around the necks of the Seagrave 
twins, drawing them close to her sides—closer when her 
sidelong glance caught the sullen bitterness on the 
darkening features of the boy, and when on the girl’s 
fair face she saw the flushed, wide-eyed, questioning 
stare. : 

When the young, seeking reasons, gaze question- 
ingly at nothing, it is well to divine and find the truth- 
ful answer, lest their other selves, evoked, stir in dark- 
ness, counselling folly. 

The answer to such questions Kathleen knew; who 
should know better than she? But it was not for her 
to reply. All she could do was to summon out of the 
vasty deep the powers that ruled her wards and herself ; 
and these, convoked in solemn assembly because of con- 
flict with their Trust Officer, might decide in becoming 
gravity such questions as what shall be the proper qual- 
ity and cost of a young girl’s corsets; and whether 
or not real lace and silk are necessary for attire more 
intimate still. 





During the next two years the steadily increasing 
friction between Remsen Tappan and his wards began 
seriously to disturb the directors of the Half Moon 
Trust. That worthy old line company viewed with un- 
easiness the revolutionary tendencies of the Seagrave 
twins as expressed in periodical and passionate let- 
ters to Colonel Mallett. The increasing frequency of 
these appeals for justice and for intervention fore- 
shadowed the desirability of a conference. Besides, 

39 


THE DANGER MARK 








there was a graver matter to consider, which implicated 
Scott. 

When Kathleen wrote, suggesting a down-town con- 
ference to decide delicate questions concerning Ger- 
aldine’s undergarments and Scott’s new gun, Colonel 
Mallett found it more convenient to appoint the Sea- 
grave house as rendezvous. 

And so it came to pass one pleasant Saturday after- 
noon in late October that, in twos and threes, a number 
of solemn old gentlemen, faultlessly attired, entered the 
red drawing-room of the Seagrave house and seated 
themselves in an impressive semicircle upon the damask 
chairs. 

_ They were Colonel Stuart Mallett, president of the 
institution, just returned from Paris with his entire 
family ; Calvin McDermott, Joshua Hogg, Carl Gum- 
ble, Friedrich Gumble; the two vice-presidents, James 
Cray and Daniel Montross; Myndert Beekman, treas- 
urer; Augustus Varick, secretary; the Hon. John D. 
Ellis; Magnelius Grandcourt 2d, and Remsen Tappan, 
Trust Officer. 

If the pillars of the house of Seagrave had been 
founded upon millions, the damask and rosewood chairs 
in the red drawing-room now groaned under the weight 
of millions. Power, authority, respectability, and legit- 
imate affluence sat there majestically enthroned in the 
mansion of the late Anthony Seagrave, awaiting in seri- 
ous tribunal the appearance of the last of that old New 
York family. 

Mrs. Severn came in first; the directors rose as one 
man, urbane, sprightly, and gallant. She was exceed- 
ingly pretty; they recognised it. They could afford to. 

Compositely they were a smooth, soft-stepping, 
soft-voiced. company. An exception or two, like Mr. 

40 


IN TRUST 








Tappan, merely accented the composite impression of 
rosy-cheeked, neatly shaven, carefully dressed prosper- 
ity. They all were cautious of voice, moderate of 
speech, chary of gesture. There was always an im- 
pressive pause before a director of the Half Moon 
Trust answered even the most harmless question ad- 
dressed to him. Some among them made it a conser- 
vative rule to swallow nothing several times before 
speaking at all. It was a safe habit to acquire. Aut 
prudens aut nullus. 

Geraldine’s starched skirts rustled on the stairway. 
When she came into the room the directors of the Half 
Moon Trust were slightly astonished. During the 
youth of the twins, the wives of several gentlemen pres- 
ent had called at intervals to inspect the growth of 
Anthony Seagrave’s grandchildren, particularly those 
worthy and acquisitive ladies who had children them- 
selves. The far-sighted reap rewards. Some day these 
baby twins would be old enough to marry. It was 
prudent to remember such details. A position as an old’ 
family friend might one day prove of thrifty advantage 
in this miserably mercenary world where dog eats dog, 
and dividends are sometimes passed. God knows and 
pities the sorrows of the rich. 

Geraldine, her slim hand in Colonel Mallett’s, cour- 
tesied with old-time quaintness, then her lifted eyes 
swept the rosy, rotund countenances before her. To 
each she courtesied and spoke, offering the questioning 
hand of amity. 

The thing that seemed to surprise them was that she 
had grown since they had seen her. Time flies when 
hunting safe investments. The manners she retained, 
like her fashion of wearing her hair, and the cut and 
length of her apparel were clearly too childish to suit 

41 


THE DANGER MARK 








the tall, slender, prettily rounded figure—the mature 
oval of the face, the delicately firm modelling of the 
features. 

This was no child before them; here stood adorable 
adolescence, a hint of the awakening in the velvet-brown 
eyes which were long and slightly slanting at the cor- 
ners; hints, too, in the vivid lips, in the finer outline 
of the profile, in faint bluish shadows under the eyes, 
edging the curved cheeks’ bloom. 

They had not seen her in two years or more, and 
she had grown up. They had merely stepped down- 
town for a hasty two years’ glance at the market, and, 
behind their backs, the child had turned into a woman. 

Hitherto they had addressed her as “ Geraldine ” 
and “ child,’? when a rare interview had been considered 
necessary. Now, two years later, unconsciously, it was 
“Miss Seagrave,” and considerable embarrassment 
when the subject of intimate attire could no longer 
be avoided. 

But Geraldine, unconscious of such things, broached 
the question with all the directness characteristic of 
her. 

“T am sorry I was rude in my last letter,” she said 
gravely, turning to Mr. Tappan. “ Will you please 
forgive me? . . . I am glad you came. I do not think 
you understand that I am no longer a little girl, and 
that things necessary for a woman are necessary for 
me. I want a quarterly allowance. I need what a 
young woman needs. Will you give these things to me, 
Mr. Tappan? ” 

Mr. Tappan’s dry lips cracked apart ; he swallowed 
grimly several times, then his long bony fingers sought 
the meagre ends of his black string tie: 

“In the cultiwation of the indiwidool,” he began 

AQ 


IN TRUST 








harshly, and checked himself, when Geraldine flushed 
to her ear tips and stamped her foot. Self-control had 
gone at last. 

** T won’t listen to that!” she said, breathless ; “* I’ve 
listened to it for ten years—as long as I can remember. 
Answer me honestly, Mr. Tappan! Can I have what 
other women have—silk underwear and stockings—real 
lace on my night dresses—and plenty of it? Can I have 
suitable gowns and furs, and have my hair dressed prop- 
erly? I want you to answer; can I make my début this 
winter and have the gowns I require—and the liberty 
that girls of my age have?” She turned on Colonel 
Mallett: “‘ The liberty that Naida has had is all I want; 
the sort of things you let her have all I ask for.” And 
appealing to Magnelius Grandcourt, who stood pursing 
his thick lips, puffed out like a surprised pouter pigeon: 
*“ Your daughter Catherine has more than I ask; why 
do you let her have what you consider bad for me? 
Why?” 

Mr. Grandcourt swallowed several times, and spoke 
in an undertone to Joshua Hogg. But he did not 
reply to Geraldine. 

Remsen Tappan turned his iron visage toward Colo- 
nel Mallett—ignoring Geraldine’s questions. 

“In the cultiwation of the indiwidool,’ he began 
again dauntlessly 

““Isn’t there anybody to answer me?” asked Ger- 
aldine, turning from one to another. 

“ Concerning the cultiwation 

** Answer me!” she flashed back. There were tears 
in her voice, but her eyes blazed. 

“Miss Seagrave,” interposed old Mr. Montross 
gravely, “I beg of you to remember “ 

* Let him answer me first! I asked him a perfectly 

43 





”° 








THE DANGER MARK 








plain question. It—it is silly to ignore me as though 
I were a foolish child—as though I didn’t know my 
mind.” 

“TY think, Mr. Tappan, perhaps if you could give 
Miss Seagrave a qualified answer to her questions— 
make some preliminary statement—” began Mr. Cray 
cautiously. 

“ Concerning what? ” snapped Tappan with a grim 
stare. 

“Concerning my stockings and my underwear,” 
said Geraldine fiercely. “I’m tired of dressing like a 
servant!” 

Mr. Tappan’s rugged jaw opened and shut with 
another snap. 

“I’m opposed to any such innowation,” he said. 

** And—my coming out this winter? And my quar- 
terly allowance? Answer me!” 

* Time enough when you turn twenty-one, Miss Sea- 
grave. Cultiwation of mind concerns you now, not 
cultiwation of raiment.” 

“ That—that—” stammered Geraldine, “is s-su- 
premely s-silly.” The tears reached her eyes; she 
brushed them away angrily. 

Mallett coughed and glanced at Myndert Beekman, 
then past the secretary, Mr. Varick, directly at Mr. 
Tappan. 

“If you could see your way to—ah—accede to 
some—a number—perhaps, in a measure, to all of 
Miss Seagrave’s not unreasonable requests, Mr. Tap- 
pan 39 

He hesitated, looked dubiously at Mr. Montross, 
who nodded. Mr. Cray, also, made an almost imper- 
ceptible sign of concurrence. Magnelius Grandcourt, 
the sixty-year enfant terrible of the company, dreaded 

44 





cee ¢ SUULYVO}S pue IvoMJopun Y[IS—oavy UudUIOM 19Y}Oo yey oACYL T UCD) a5 








IN TRUST 








for his impulsive outbursts—though the effect of these 
outbursts was always very carefully considered before- 
hand—stepped jauntily across the floor, and lifting 
Geraldine’s hand to his rather purplish lips, saluted it 
with a flourish. 

“Oh, I say, Tappan, let Miss Seagrave have what 
she wants!” he exclaimed with a hearty disregard of 
caution, which outwardly disturbed but inwardly de- 
ceived nobody except Geraldine and Mrs. Severn. 

Colonel Mallett thought: “ The acquisitive beast is 
striking attitudes on his fool of a son’s account.” 

-Mr. Tappan’s small iron-gray eyes bored two holes 
through the inward motives of Mr. Grandcourt, and 
his mouth tightened till the seamed lips were merely 
a line. 

“IT think, Magnelius,” said Colonel Mallett coldly, 
“that it is, perhaps, the sense of our committee that 
the time has practically arrived for some change—per- 
haps radical change—in the—in the—ah—the hith- 
erto exceedingly wise regulations 4 

** May I have real lace?” cried Geraldine— “ Oh, 
I beg your pardon, Colonel Mallett, for interrupting, 
but I was perfectly crazy to know what you were going 
to say.” 

Other people have been crazier and endured more to 
learn what hope the verdict of ponderous authority 
might hold for them. 

Colonel Mallett, a trifle ruffled at the etuseiiaition, 
swallowed several times and then continued without 
haste to rid himself of a weighty opinion concerning 
the début and the petticoats of the Half Moon’s ward. 
He might have made the child happy in one word. It 
took him twenty minutes. : 

Concurring opinions were then solemnly delivered 

45 





THE DANGER MARK 








by every director in turn except Mr. Tappan, who 
spoke for half an hour, doggedly dissenting on every 
point. 

But the days of the old régime were evidently num- 
bered. He understood it. He looked across at the 
crackled portrait of his old friend Anthony Seagrave ; 
the faded, painted features were obliterated in a bar 
of slanting sunlight. 

So, concluding his dissenting opinion, and having 
done his duty, he sat down, drawing the skirts of his 
frock-coat close around his bony thighs. He had done 
his best; his reward was this child’s hatred—which 
she already forgot in the confused delight of her sud- 
den liberation. 

Dazed with happiness, to one after another Geral- 
dine courtesied and extended the narrow childlike hand 
of amity—even to him. Then, as though treading on 
invisible pink clouds, she floated out and away. up-stairs, 
scarcely conscious of passing her brother on the stair- 
way, who was now descending for his turn before the 
altar of authority. 


When Scott returned he appeared to be unusually 
red in the face. Geraldine seized him ecstatically: 

“Oh, Scott! I am to come out, after all—and I’m 
to have my quarterly, and gowns, and everything. I 
could have hugged Mr. Grandcourt—the dear! I was 
so frightened—frightened into rudeness—and then that 
beast of a Tappan scared me terribly. But it is all 
right now—and what did they promise you, poor 
dear? ” 

Scott’s face still remained flushed as he stood, hands 
in his pockets, head slightly bent, tracing with the toe 
of his shoe the carpet pattern. 

46 


IN TRUST 








“You want to know what they promised me?” he 
asked, looking up at his sister with an unpleasant 
laugh. She poured a few drops of cologne onto a 
lump of sugar, placed it between her lips, and nodded: 

“They did promise you something—didn’t they? ” 

“Oh, certainly. They promised to make it hot for 
me if I ever again borrowed money on notes.” 

* Scott! did you do that? ” 

“ Give my note? Certainly. I needed money—lI’ve 
told old tabby Tappan so again and again. In a year 
T’ll have all the money I need—so what’s the harm if 
I borrow a little and promise to pay when I’m of age?” 

Geraldine considered a moment: “ It’s curious,” she 
reflected, “but do you knew, Scott, I never thought 
of doing that. It never occurred to me to do it! Why 
didn’t you tell me? ” 

** Because,” said her brother with an embarrassed 
laugh, “ it’s not exactly a proper thing to do, I believe. 
Anyway, they raised a terrible row about it. Probably 
that’s why they have at last given me a decent quarterly 
allowance; they think it’s safer, I suppose—and they’re 
right. The stingy old fossils.” 

The boyish boast, the veiled hint of revolt and re- 
prisal vaguely disturbed Geraldine’s sense of justice. 

* After all,’ she said, “ they have meant to be kind. 
They didn’t know how, that’s all. And, Scott, do let 
us try to be better now. I’m ashamed of my rudeness 
to them. And I’m going to be very, very good to 
Kathleen and not do one single thing to make her un- 
happy or even to bother Mr. Tappan. . . . And, oh, 
Scott! my silks and laces! my darling clothes! All 
is coming true! Do you hear? And, Scott! Naida 
and Duane are back and I’m dying to see them. Duane 
is twenty-three, think of it!” 

47 


THE DANGER MARK 








She seized him and spun him around. 

“If you don’t hug me and tell me you’re fond of me, 
I shall go mad. Tell me you’re fond of me, Scott! You 
do love me, don’t you? ” 

He kissed his sister with preoccupied toleration: 
“ Whew!” he said, “ your breath reeks of cologne! 

“ As for me,” he added, half sullenly, “I’m going 
to have a few things I want, now. . . . And do a few 
things, too.” 

But what these things were he did not specify. Nor 
did Geraldine have time to speculate, so occupied was 
she now with preparations for the wonderful winter 
which was to come true at last—which was already be- 
ginning to come true with exciting visits to that magic 
country of brilliant show-windows which, like an en- 
chanted city by itself, sparkles from Madison Square to 
the Plaza between Fourth Avenue and Broadway. 


Into this sparkling metropolitan zone she hastened 
with Kathleen ; all day long, week after week, she flitted 
from shop to shop, never satisfied, always eager to see, 
to explore. Yet two things Kathleen noticed: Geral- 
dine seemed perfectly happy and contented to view the 
glitter of vanity fair without thought of acquiring its 
treasures for herself; and, when reminded that she was 
there to buy, she appeared to be utterly ignorant of 
the value of money, though a childhood without it was 
supposed to have taught her its rarity and precious- 
ness. 

The girl’s personal tastes were expensive; she could 
linger in ecstasy all the morning over piles of wonder- | 
ful furs without envy, without even thinking of them 
for herself; but when Kathleen mentioned the reason 
of their shopping, Geraldine always indicated sables as 

48 


IN TRUST 








her choice, any single piece of which would have re- 
quired half her yearly allowance to pay for. 

And she was for ever wishing to present things to 
Kathleen; silks that were chosen, model gowns that 
they examined together, laces, velvets, jewels, always 
her first thought seemed to be that Kathleen should 
have what they both enjoyed looking at so ardently; 
and many a laughing contest they had as to whether 
her first quarterly allowance should be spent upon her- 
self or her friends. 

On the surface it would appear that unselfishness 
was the key to her character. That was impossible; she 
had lived too long alone. Yet Geraldine was clearly 
not acquisitive; though, when she did buy, her care- 
less extravagance worried Kathleen. Spendthrift—in 
that she cared nothing for the money value of anything 
—her bright, piquant, eager face was a welcome sight 
to the thrifty metropolitan shopkeeper at Christmas- 
tide. A delicate madness for giving obsessed her; she 
bought a pair of guns for Scott, laces and silks for 
Kathleen, and for the servants everything she could 
think of. Nobody was forgotten, not even Mr. Tap- 
pan, who awoke Christmas morning to gaze grimly 
upon an antique jewelled fob all dangling with pencils 
and seals. In the first flush of independence it gave 
her more pleasure to give than to acquire. 

Also, for the first time in her life, she superintended 
the distribution of her own charities, flying in the 
motor with Kathleen from church to mission, eager, 
curious, pitiful, appalled, by turns. Sentiment over- 
whelmed her; it was a new kind of pleasure. 


One night she arose shivering from her warm bed, 
and with ink and paper sat figuring till nearly dawn 
49 


THE DANGER MARK 








how best to distribute what fortune she might one day 
possess, and live an exalted life on ten dollars a week. 

Kathleen found her there asleep, head buried in the 
scattered papers, limbs icy to the knees; and there en- 
sued an interim of bronchitis which threatened at one 
time to postpone her début. 

But the medical profession of Manhattan came to 
the rescue in battalions, and Geraldine was soon afoot, 
once more drifting ecstatically among the splendours 
of the shops, thrilling with the nearness of the day 
that should set her free among unnumbered hosts of 
unknown friends. 

Who would these unknown people turn out to be? 
What hearts were at that very moment destined to 
respond in friendship to her own? 

Often lying awake, nibbling her scented lump of 
sugar, the darkness reddening, at intervals, as embers 
of her bedroom fire dropped glowing to the hearth, she 
pictured to herself this vast, brilliant throng awaiting 
to welcome her as one of them. And her imagination 
catching fire, through closed lids she seemed to see 
heavenly vistas of youthful faces—a thousand arms 
outstretched in welcome; and she, advancing, eyes dim 
with happiness, giving herself to this world of youth 
and friendship—crossing the threshold—leaving for 
ever behind her the past with its loneliness and iso- 
lation. 

It was of friendships she dreamed, and the blessed 
nearness of others, and the liberty to seek them. She 
promised herself she would never, never again permit 
herself to be alone. She had no definite plans, except 
that. Life henceforth must be filled with the bright 
shapes of comrades. Life must be only pleasure. 
Never again must sadness come near her. A miracu- 

50 


IN TRUST 








lous capacity for happiness seemed to fill her breast, ex- 
panding with the fierce desire for it, until under the 
closed lids tears stole out, and there, in the darkness, 
she held out her bare arms to the world—the kind, 
good, generous, warm-hearted world, which was wait- 
ing, just beyond her threshold, to welcome her and 
love her and companion her for ever. 


CHAPTER III 
THE THRESHOLD 


Sue awoke tired; she had scarcely closed her eyes 
that night. The fresh odour of roses filled her room 
when her maid arrived with morning gifts from Kath- 
leen and Scott. 

She lay abed until noon. They started dressing her 
about three. After that the day became unreal to her. 


Manhattan was conventionally affable to Geraldine 
Seagrave, also somewhat curious to see what she 
looked like. Fifth Avenue and the neighbouring side 
streets were jammed with motors and carriages on the 
bright January afternoon that Geraldine made her 
bow, and the red and silver drawing-rooms, so famous a 
generation ago, were packed continually. 

What people saw was a big, clumsy house expen- 
sively overdecorated in the appalling taste of forty 
years ago, now screened by forests of palms and vast 
banks of flowers; and they saw a number of people 
popularly identified with the sort of society which news- 
papers delight to revere; and a few people of real dis- 
tinction; and a young girl, noticeably pale, standing 
beside Kathleen Severn and receiving the patronage of 
dowagers and beaux, and the impulsive clasp of fellow- 
ship from fresh-faced young girls and nice-looking, 
well-mannered young fellows. 

The general opinion seemed to be that Geraldine 
Seagrave possessed all the beauty which rumour had 

52 


THE THRESHOLD 








attributed to her as her right by inheritance, but the 
animation of her clever mother was lacking. Also, some 
said that her manners still smacked of the nursery; and 
that, unless it had been temporarily frightened out of 
her, she had little personality and less charm. 

Nothing, as a matter of fact, had been frightened 
out of her; for weeks she had lived in imagination so 
vividly through that day that when the day really ar- 
rived it found her physically and mentally unrespon- 
sive; the endless reiteration of names sounded mean- 
inglessly in her ears, the crowding faces blurred. She 
was passively satisfied to be there, and content with 
the touch of hands and the pleasant-voiced formalities 
of people pressing toward her from every side. 


Afterward few impressions remained; she remem- 
bered the roses’ perfume, and a very fat woman with 
a confusing similarity of contour fore and aft who 
blocked the lines and rattled on like a machine-gun say- 
ing dreadfully frank things about herself, her family, 
and everybody she mentioned. 

Naida Mallett, whom she had not seen in many years, 
she had known immediately, and now remembered. And 
Naida had taken her white-gloved hand shyly, whisper- 
ing constrained formalities, then had disappeared into 
the unreality of it all. 

Duane, her old playmate, may have been there, but 
she could not remember having seen him. There were 
so many, many youths of the New York sort, all 
dressed alike, all resembling one another—many, many 
people flowing past her where she stood submerged in 
the silken ebb eddying around her. 


These were the few hazy impressions remaining— 
she was recalling them now while dressing for her first 
53 


THE DANGER MARK 








dinner dance. Later, when her maid released her with 
a grunt of Gallic disapproval, she, distraite, glanced at 
her gown in the mirror, still striving to recall some- 
thing definite of the day before. 

“ Was Duane there? ” she asked Kathleen, who had 
just entered. 

“No, dear. . . . Why did you happen to think of 
Duane Mallett? ” 

“ Naida came. . . . Duane was such a splendid lit- 
tle boy. . . . I had hoped 

Mrs. Severn said coolly: 

‘Duane isn’t a very splendid man. I might as well 
tell you now as later.” 

“‘ What in the world do you mean, Kathleen? ” 

“T mean that people say he was rather horrid 
abroad. Some women don’t mind that sort of thing, 
but I do.” 

“Horrid? How?” 

“He went about Europe with unpleasant people. 
He had too much money—and that is ruinous for a 
boy. I hate to disillusion you, but for several years 
people have been gossipping about Duane Mallett’s ex- 
ploits abroad; and they are not savoury.” 

“What were they? I am old enough to know.” 

“T don’t propose to tell you. He was notoriously 
wild. There were scandals. Hush! here comes Scott.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, pinch some colour into your 
cheeks!” exclaimed her brother; “ we’re not going to 
a wake!” 

And Kathleen said anxiously: “ Your gown is per- 
fection, dear ; are you a trifle tired? You do look pale.” 

“Tired? ” repeated Geraldine—“ not in the least, 
dearest. . . . If I seem not to be excited, I really am, 
internally; but perhaps I haven’t learned how to show 

54 





THE THRESHOLD 








it. . . . Don’t I look well? I was so preoccupied with 
my gown in the mirror that I forgot to examine my 
face.” 

Mrs. Severn kissed her. ‘ You and your gown are 
charming. Come, we are late, and that isn’t permitted 
to débutantes.” 


It was Mrs. Magnelius Grandcourt who was giving 
the first dinner and dance for Geraldine Seagrave. In 
the cloak-room she encountered some very animated 
women of the younger married set, who spoke to her 
amiably, particularly a Mrs. Dysart, who said she 
knew Duane Mallett, and who was so friendly that a 
bit of colour warmed Geraldine’s pallid cheeks and still 
remained there when, a few minutes later, she saluted 
her heavily jewelled hostess and recognised in her the 
fat fore-and-aft lady of the day before. 

Mrs. Magnelius Grandcourt, glittering like a 
South American scarab, detained her with the smallest 
and chubbiest hands she had ever seen inside of gloves. 

“My dear, you look ghastly,” said her hostess. 
*You’re probably scared to death. This is my son, 
Delancy, who is going to take you in, and I’m wonder- 
ing about you, because Delancy doesn’t get on with 
débutantes, but that can’t be helped. If he’s pig 
enough not to talk to you, it wouldn’t surprise me— 
and it’s just as well, too, for if he likes anybody he 
compromises them, but it’s no use your ever liking a 
Grandcourt, for all the men make rotten husbands— 
I’m glad Rosalie Dysart threw him over for poor Jack 
Dysart; it saved her a divorce! I’d get one if I could; 
so would Magnelius. My husband was a judge once, 
but he resigned because he couldn’t send people up for 
the things he was doing himself.” 

5 55 


THE DANGER MARK 








Mrs. Grandcourt, still gabbling away, turned to 
greet new arrivals, merely switching to another sub- 
ject without interrupting her steady stream of out- 
rageous talk. She was celebrated for it—and for noth- 
ing else. 

Geraldine, bewildered and a little horrified, looked 
at her billowy, bediamonded hostess, then at young De- 
lancy Grandcourt, who, not perceptibly abashed by his 
mother’s left-handed compliments, lounged beside her, 
apparently on the verge of a yawn. 

“My mother says things,” he explained patiently ; 
“ nobody minds ’em. . . . Shall we exchange nonsense 
—or would you rather save yourself until dinner? ” 

“Save myself what?” she asked nervously. 

“The nuisance of talking to me about nothing. 
I’m not clever.” 

Geraldine reddened. 

“TJ don’t usually talk about nothing.” 

“T do,” he said. ‘I never have much to say.” 

“Ts that because you don’t like débutantes?” she 
asked coldly. 

“It’s because they don’t care about me... If 
you would talk to me, I’d really be grateful.” 

He flushed and stepped back awkwardly to allow 
room for a slim, handsome man to pass between them. 
The very ornamental man did not pass, however, but 
calmly turned toward Geraldine, and began to talk to 
her. 

She presently discovered his name to be Dysart; 
and she also discovered that Mr. Dysart didn’t know 
her name; and, for a moment after she had told him, 
surprise and a confused sense of resentment silenced 
her, because she was quite certain now that they had 
never been properly presented. 


56 


THE THRESHOLD 








That negligence of conventions was not unusual in 
this new world she was entering, she had already no- 
ticed; and this incident was evidently another example 
of custom smilingly ignored. She looked up ques- 
tioningly, and Dysart, instantly divining the trouble, 
laughed in his easy, attractive fashion—the fashion he 
usually affected with women. 

“You seemed so fresh and cool and sweet all alone 
in this hot corner that I simply couldn’t help coming 
over to hear whether your voice matched the ensemble. 
And it surpasses it. Are you going to be resentful? ” 

“I’m too ignorant to be—or to laugh about it as 
you do. . . . Is it becau e I look a simpleton that you 
come to see if I really am?” 

** Are you planning to punish me, Miss Seagrave? ” 

*T’m afraid I don’t know how.” 

“Fate will, anyway, unless I am placed next you 
at dinner,” he said with his most reassuring smile, and 
rose gracefully. 

“I’m going to fix it,” he added, and, pushing his 
way toward his hostess, disappeared in the crush. 

Later young Grandcourt reappeared from the 
crush to take her in. Every table seated eight, and, 
sure enough, as she turned involuntarily to glance at 
her neighbour on the right, it was Dysart’s pale face, 
cleanly cut as a cameo, that met her gaze. He nodded 
back to her with unfeigned satisfaction at his own 
success. 

“ 'That’s the way to manage,” he said, “ when you 
want a thing very much. Isn’t it, Miss Seagrave? ” 

“You did not ask me whether I wanted it,” she 
said, 

“Don’t you want me here? If you don’t—” His 
features fell and he made a pretence of rising. His 

57 


THE DANGER MARK 








pale, beautifully sculptured face had become so fear- 
fully serious that she coloured up quickly. 

“Oh, you wouldn’t do such a thing—now! to em- 
barrass me.” 

* Yes, I would—I’d do anything desperate.” 

But she had already caught the flash of mischief, 
and realising that he had been taking more or less for 
granted in tormenting her, looked down at her plate 
and presently tasted what was on it. 

“I know you are not offended,” he murmured. 
** Are you? ” 

She knew she was not, too; but she merely 
shrugged. ‘Then why do you ask me, Mr. Dysart?” 

“Because you have such pretty shoulders,” he re- 
plied seriously. 

** What an idiotic reply to make!” 

“Why? Don’t you think you have? ” 

6 What: p 99 

** Pretty shoulders.” 

“JT don’t think anything about my deputders' as 

* You would if there was anything the matter with 
them,” he insisted. 

Once or twice he turned his handsome dark gaze on 
her while she was dissecting her terrapin. 

“ They tip up a little—at the corners, don’t they? ” 
he inquired anxiously. ‘ Does it hurt?” 

“Tip up? What tips up?” she demanded. 

* Your eyes.” 

She swung around toward him, confused and exas- 
perated; but no seriousness was proof against the de- 
lighted malice in Dysart’s face; and she laughed a lit- 
tle, and laughed again when he did. And she thought 
that he was, perhaps, the handsomest man she had ever 
seen. All débutantes did. 

58 


THE THRESHOLD 








Young Grandcourt turned from the pretty, over- 
painted woman who, until that moment, had apparently 
held him interested when his food failed to monop- 
olise his attention, and glanced heavily around at 
Geraldine. 

All he saw was the back of her head and shoulders. 
Evidently she was not missing him. Evidently, too, she 
was having a very good time with Dysart. 

“What are you laughing about?” he asked wist- 
fully, leaning forward to see her face. 

Geraldine glanced back across her shoulder. 

“Mr. Dysart is trying to be impertinent,” she re- 
plied carelessly; and returned again to the imperti- 
nent one, quite ready for more torment now that she 
began to understand how agreeable it was. 

But Dysart’s expression had changed; there was 
something vaguely caressing in voice and manner as he 
murmured : 

* Do you know there is something almost divine in 
your face.” 

** What did you say? ” asked Geraldine, looking up 
from her ice in its nest of spun sugar. 

“You so strenuously reject the truthful compli- 
ments I pay you, that perhaps I’d better not repeat 
this one.” 

“Was it really more absurd flattery? ” 

“No, never mind. .. .” He leaned back in his 
chair, absently turning the curious, heavily chiselled 
ring on his little finger, but every few moments his ex- 
pressive eyes reverted to her. She was eating her ice 
with all the frank enjoyment of a schoolgirl. 

“Do you know, Miss Seagrave, that you and I are 
really equipped for better things than talking non- 
sense.” 


59 


THE DANGER MARK 








“I know that I am,” she observed. . . . “ Isn’t this 
spun sugar delicious! ” 

“Yes; and so are you.” 

But she pretended not to hear. 

He laughed, then fell silent ; his dreamy gaze shifted 
from vacancy to her—and, casually, across the room, 
where it settled lightly as a butterfly on his wife, and 
there it poised for a moment’s inexpressive examina- 
tion. Scott Seagrave was talking to Rosalie; she did 
not notice her husband. 

After that, with easy nonchalance approaching im- 
pudence, he turned to his own neglected dinner partner, 
Sylvia Quest, who received his tardy attentions with 
childish irritation. She didn’t know any better. And 
there was now no time to patch up matters, for the 
signal to rise had been given and Dysart took Sylvia 
to the door with genuine relief. She bored him dread- 
fully since she had become sentimental over him. They 
always did. 

Lounging back through the rising haze of tobacco- 
smoke he encountered Peter Tappan and stopped to 
exchange a word. 

“ Dancing? ” he inquired, lighting his cigarette. 

Tappan nodded. ‘“ You, too, of course.” For 
Dysart was one of those types known in society as a 
“dancing man.” He also led cotillions, and a morally 
blameless life as far as the more virile Commandments 
were concerned. 

He said: “ That little Seagrave girl is rather fetch- 
ing.” 

Tappan answered indifferently : 

“She resembles the general run of this year’s out- 
put. She’s weedy. They all ought to marry before 
they go about to dinners, anyway.” 

60 


THE THRESHOLD 








“Marry whom?” 

“ Anybody — Delancy, here, for instance. You 
know as well as I do that no woman is possible unless 
she’s married,” yawned Tappan. “ Isn’t that so, De- 
lancy? ” clapping Grandcourt on the shoulder. 

Grandcourt said “ yes,” to be rid of him; but Dy- 
sart turned around with his usual smile of amused con- 
tempt. 

“You think so, too, Delancy,” he said, “ because 
what is obvious and ready-made appeals to you. You 
think as you eat—heavily—and you miss a few things. 
That little Seagrave girl is charming. But you’d never 
discover it.” 

Grandcourt slowly removed the fat cigar from his 
lips, rolled it meditatively between thick forefinger and 
thumb : 

* Do you know, Jack, that you’ve been saying that 
sort of thing to me for a number of years?” 

“Yes; and it’s just as true now as it ever was, old 
fellow.” 

“That may be; but did it ever occur to you that 
I might get tired hearing it... . And might, pos- 
sibly, resent it some day?” 

For a long time Dysart had been uncomfortably 
conscious that Grandcourt had had nearly enough of 
his half-sneering, half-humourous frankness. His lik- 
ing for Grandcourt, even as a schoolboy, had invari- 
ably been tinged with tolerance and good-humoured 
contempt. Dysart had always led in everything; taken 
what he chose without considering Grandcourt—some- 
times out of sheer perversity, he had taken what Grand- 
court wanted—not really wanting it himself—as in the 
case of Rosalie Dene. 

“What are you talking about resenting?—my 

61 


THE DANGER MARK 








monopolising your dinner partner?” asked Dysart, 
smiling. ‘“‘ Take her; amuse yourself. I don’t want 
her.” 

Grandcourt inspected his cigar again. “I’m tired 
of that sort of thing, too,” he said. 

“ What sort of thing?” 

“ Contenting myself with what you don’t want.” 

Dysart lit a cigarette, still smiling, then shrugged 
and turned as though to go. Around them through the 
smoke rose the laughing clamour of young men gather- 
ing at the exit. 

“I want to tell you something,” said Grandcourt 
heavily. “I’m an ass to do it, but I want to tell you.” 

Dysart halted patiently. 

“It’s this,” went on Grandcourt: “between you 
and my mother, I’ve never had a chance; she makes me 
out a fool and you have always assumed it to be true.” 

Dysart glanced at him with amused contempt. 

A heavy flush rose to Grandcourt’s cheek-bones. 
He said slowly: 

“I want my chance. You had better let me have it 
when it. comes.” | 

“What chance do you mean? ” 

“T mean—a woman. All my life you’ve been at 
my elbow to step in. You took what you wanted— 
your shadow always falls between me and anybody I’m 
inclined to like. . . . It happened to-night—as usual. 
- . - And I tell you now, at last, I’m tired of it.” 

“What a ridiculous idea you seem to have of me,” 
began Dysart, laughing. 

“Tm afraid of you. I always was. Now—let me 
alone!” 

“Have you ever known me, since I’ve been mar- 
ried—” He caught Grandcourt’s eye, stammered, and 


62 


THE THRESHOLD 








stopped short. Then: “ You certainly are absurd. De- 

lancy! I wouldn’t deliberately interfere with you or 
disturb a young girl’s peace of mind. The trouble iia 

you is a 
“The trouble with you is that women take to you 

very quickly, and you are always trying to see how far 
you can arouse their interest. What’s the use of risk- 
ing heartaches to satisfy curiosity? ” 

“Oh, I don’t have heartaches!” said Dysart, in- 
tensely amused. 

“TI wasn’t thinking of you. I suppose that’s the 
reason you find it amusing. ... Not that I think 
there’s any real harm in you i 

“Thanks,” laughed Dysart; “it only needed that 
remark to damn me utterly. Now go and dance with 
little Miss bite pie and don’t worry about my trying 
to interfere.” 

Grandcourt looked sullenly at him. “I’m sorry I 
spoke, now,” he said. “I never know enough to hold 
my tongue to you.” 

He turned bulkily on his heel and left the dining- 
hall. There were others, in throngs, leaving—young, 
eager-faced fellows, with a scattering of the usual 
“dancing”? men on whom everybody could always 
count, and a few middle-aged gentlemen and women of 
the younger married set to give stability to what was, 
otherwise, a débutante’s affair. 

Dysart, strolling about, booked a dance or two, 
performed creditably, made his peace, for the sake of 
peace, with Sylvia Quest, whose ignorant heart had 
been partly awakened under his idle investigations. 
But this was Sylvia’s second season, and she would no 
doubt learn several things of which she heretofore had 
been unaware. Just at present, however, her heart was 

6 63 








THE DANGER MARK 








very full, and life’s outlook was indeed tragic to a 
young girl who believed herself wildly in love with a 
married man, and who employed all her unhappy wits 
in the task of concealing it. 

A load of guilt lay upon her soul; the awful fact 
that she adored him frightened her terribly; that she 
could not keep away from him terrified her still more. 
But most of all she dreaded that he might guess her 
secret. 

“J don’t know why you thought I minded your not 
—not talking to me during dinner,” she faltered. rol 
was having a perfectly heavenly time with Peter Tap- 

an.” 
i “Do you mean that?” murmured Dysart. He 
could not help playing his part, even when it no longer 
interested him. To murmur was as natural to him as 
to breathe. 

She looked up piteously. “I would rather have 
talked to you,” she said. “ Peter Tappan is only an 
overgrown boy. If you had really cared to talk to 
me—” She checked herself, flushing deeply. 

O Lord! he thought, contemplating in the girl’s 
lifted eyes the damage he had not really expected to 
do. For it had, as usual, surprised him to realise, 
too late, how dangerous it is to say too much, and 
look too long, and how easy it is to awaken hearts 
asleep. 

Dancing was to be general before the cotillion. Syl- 
via would have given him as many dances as he asked 
for; he danced once with her as a great treat, resolving 
never to experiment any more with anybody... . 
True, it might have been amusing to see how far he 
could have interested the little Seagrave girl—but he 
would renounce that; he’d keep away from everybody. 

64 


THE THRESHOLD 








But Dysart could no more avoid making eyes at 
anything in petticoats than he could help the tender- 
ness of his own smile or the caressing cadence of his 
voice, or the subtle, indefinite something in him which 
irritated men but left few women indifferent and some 
greatly perturbed as he strolled along on his amusing 
journey through the world. 

He was strolling on now, having managed to leave 
Sylvia planted; and presently, without taking any par- 
ticular trouble to find Geraldine, discovered her event- 
ually as the centre of a promising circle of men, very 
young men and very old men—nothing medium and de- 
sirable as yet. 

For a while, amused, Dysart watched her at her 
first party. Clearly she was inexperienced; she let these 
men have their own way and their own say; she was not 
handling them skilfully; yet there seemed to be a charm 
about this young girl that detached man after man 
from the passing throng and added them to her circle— 
which had now become a half circle, completely corner- 
ing her. 

Animated, shyly confident, brilliant-eyed, and flushed 
with the excitement of attracting so much attention, she 
was beginning to lose her head a little—just a little. 
Dysart noticed it in her nervous laughter; in a slight 
exaggeration of gesture with fan and flowers; in the 
quick movement of her restless little head, as though 
it were incumbent upon her to give to every man con- 
fronting her his own particular modicum of attention 
—which was not like a débutante, either; and Dysart 
realised that she was getting on. 

So he sauntered up, breaking through the circle, 
and reminded Geraldine of a dance she had not prom- 
ised him. 

65 


THE DANGER MARK 








She knew she had not promised, but she was quite 
ready to give it—had already opened her lips to assent 
—when a young man, passing, swung around abruptly 
as though to speak to her, hesitating as Geraldine’s 
glance encountered his without recognition. 

But, as he started to move on, she suddenly knew 
him; and at the same moment Kathleen’s admonition ~ 
rang in her ears. Her own voice drowned it. 

“Oh, Duane!” she exclaimed, stretching out her 
hand across Dysart’s line of advance. 

“You are Geraldine Seagrave, are you not?” he 
asked smilingly, retaining her hand in such a manner 
as practically to compel her to step past Dysart toward 
him. 

“Of course I am. You might have known me had 
you been amiable enough to appear at my coming 
out.” 

He laughed easily, still retaining her hand and look- 
ing down at her from his inch or two of advantage. 
Then he casually inspected Dysart, who, not at all 
pleased, returned his gaze with a careless unconcern 
verging on offence. Few men cared for Dysart on first 
inspection—or on later acquaintance; Mallett was no 
exception. 

Geraldine said, with smiling constraint: 

“It has been so very jolly to see you again.” And 
withdrew her hand, adding: “‘ I hope—some time——” 

“'Won’t you let me talk to you now for a moment 
or two? You are not going to dismiss me with that 
sort of come-back—after all these years—are you?” 

He seemed so serious about it that the girl col- 
oured up. 

“ I—that is, Mr. Dysart was going to—to—” She 
turned and looked at Dysart, who remained planted 

66 


THE THRESHOLD 








where she had left him, exceedingly wroth at experi- 
encing the sort of casual treatment he had so often 
meted out to others. His expression was peevish. Ger- 
aldine, confused, began hurriedly: 

“I thought Mr. Dysart meant to ask me to 
dance.” 

“ Meant to?” interrupted Mallett, laughing; “J 
mean to ask for this dance, and I do.” 

Once more she turned and encountered Dysart’s 
darkening gaze, hesitated, then with a nervous, gay 
little gesture to him, partly promise, partly adieu, she 
took Mallett’s arm. 

It was the first glimmer of coquetry she had ever 
deliberately displayed; and at the same instant she be- 
came aware that something new had been suddenly 
awakened in her—something which stole like a glow 
through her veins, exciting her with its novelty. 

“Do you know,” she said, “ that you have taken me 
forcibly away from an exceedingly nice man? ” 

“TI don’t care.” 

*Oh—but might I not at least have been con- 
sulted? ” 

* Didn’t you want to come?” he asked, stopping 
short. There was something overbearing in his voice 
and his straight, unwavering gaze. 

She didn’t know how to take it, how to meet it. 
Voice and manner required some proper response which 
seemed to be beyond her experience. 

She did not answer; but a slight pressure of her 
bare arm set him in motion again. 

The phenomenon interested her; to see what control 
over this abrupt young man she really had she ventured 
a very slight retrograde arm-pressure, then a delicate 
touch to right, to left, and forward once more. It was 


67 


THE DANGER MARK 








most interesting; he backed up, guided right and left, 
and started forward or halted under perfect control. 
What had she been afraid of in him? She ventured to 
glance around, and, encountering a warmly personal 
interest in his gaze, instantly assumed that cold, blank, 
virginal mask which the majority of young girls dis- 
card at her age. 

However, her long-checked growth in the arts of 
womanhood had already recommenced. She had been 
growing fast, feverishly, and was just now passing that 
period where the desire for masculine admiration inno- 
cently rules all else, but where the discovery of it chills 
and constrains. 

She passed it at that moment. The next time their 
glances met she smiled a little. A new epoch in her 
life had begun. 

“Where are you taking me?” she asked. “ Are we 
not going to dance? ” 

“T thought we might sit out a dance or two in the 
conservatory—one or two - 

“One,” she said decidedly. ‘ Here are some palms. 
Why not sit here? ” 

There were a number of people about; she saw them, 
too, noted his hesitation, understood it. 

_ “We'll sit here,” she said, and stood smilingly re- 
garding him while he lugged up two chairs to the most 
retired corner. 

Slowly waving her fan, she seated herself and sur- 
veyed the room. 

It is quite true that reunion after many years usu- 
ally ends in constraint and indifference. If she felt 
slightly bored, she certainly looked it. Neither of them 
resembled the childish recollections or preconceived no- 
tions of the other. They found themselves inspecting 

68 





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one another askance, as though furtively attempting to 
surprise some familiar feature, some resemblance to a 
cherished memory. 

But the changes were too radical ; their eyes, looking 
for old comrades, encountered the unremembered eyes 
of strangers—for they were strangers—this tall young 
man, with his gray eyes, pleasantly fashioned mouth, 
and cleanly moulded cheeks; and this long-limbed girl, 
who sat, knees crossed, one long, slim foot nervously 
swinging above its shadow on the floor. 

In spite of his youth there was in his manner, if 
not in his voice, something tinged with fatigue. She 
thought of what Kathleen had said about him; looked 
up, instinctively questioning him with curious, uncom- 
prehending eyes; then her gaze wandered, became lost 
in smiling retrospection as she thought of Dysart, 
peevish; and she frankly regretted him and his dance. 

Young Mallett stirred, passed a rather bony hand 
ever his shaven upper lip, and said abruptly: “ I never 
expected you’d grow up like this. You’ve turned into 
a different kind of girl. Once you were chubby of 
cheek and limb. Do you remember how you used to 
fight? ” 

“ Didi TI?” 

“Certainly. You hit me twice in the eye because 
I lost my temper sparring with Scott. Your hands 
were small but heavy in those days. ... I imagine 
they’re heavier now.” 

She laughed, clasped both pretty hands over her 
knee, and tilted back against the palm, regarding him 
from dark, velvety eyes. 

“You were a curiously fascinating child,” he said. 
“TI remember how fast you could run, and how your 
hair fleyw—it was thick and dark, with rather sunny 


69 


THE DANGER MARK 








high lights; and you were always running—always on 
the go. . . . You were a remarkably just girl; that I 
remember. You were absolutely fair to everybody.” 

*‘T was a very horrid little scrub,” she said, watch- 
ing him over her gently waving fan, “ with a dreadful 
temper,” she added. 

** Have you it now? ” 

“Yes. I get over it quickly. Do you find Scott 
very much changed? ” 

“Well, not as much as you. Do you find Naida 
changed? ” 

* Not nearly as much as you.” 

They smiled. The slight embarrassment born of 
polite indifference brightened into amiable interest, 
tinctured by curiosity. 

““ Duane, have you been studying painting all these 
years? ” 

“Yes. What have you been doing all these years? ” 

“ Nothing.” A shadow fell across her face. “ It 
has been lonely—until recently. I began to live yes- 
terday.” 

“ You used to tell me you were lonely,” he nodded. 

“TI was. You and Naida were godsends.” Some- 
thing of the old thrill stirred her recollection. She 
leaned forward, looking at him curiously ; the old mem- 
ory of him was already lending him something of the 
forgotten glamour. 

“ How tall you are!” she said; “ how much thinner 
and—how very impressively grown-up you are, Duane. 
I didn’t expect you to be entirely a man so soon—with 
such a—an odd—expression 4 

He asked, smiling: “ What kind of an expression 
have I, Geraldine? ” 

“ Not a boyish one; entirely a man’s eyes and mouth 


70 





THE THRESHOLD 








and voice—a little too wise, as though, deep inside, you 
were tired of something; no, not exactly that, but as 
though you had seen many things and had lived some 
of them 

She checked herself, lips softly apart ; and the mem- 
ory of what she had heard concerning him returned 
to her. 

Confused, she continued to laugh lightly, adding: 
“T believe I was afraid of you at first. Ought I to be, 
still? You know more than I do—you know different 
kinds of things: your face and voice and manner show 
it. I feel humble and ignorant in the presence of so 
distinguished a European artist.” 

They were laughing together now without a trace 
of constraint; and she was aware that his interest in 
her was unfeigned and unmistakably the interest of a 
man for a woman, that he was looking at her as other 
men had now begun to look at her, speaking as other 
men spoke, frankly interested in her as a woman, find- 
ing her agreeable to look at and talk to. 

In the unawakened depths of her a conviction grew 
that her old playmate must be classed with other men 
—man in the abstract—that indefinite and interesting 
term, hinting of pleasures to come and _ possibilities 
unimagined. 

“Did you paint pictures all the time you were 
abroad?” she asked. 

*“ Not every minute. I travelled a lot, went about, 
was asked to shoot in England and Austria, . . . I had 
a good time.” 

* Didn’t you work hard?” 

“No. Isn’t it disgraceful!” 

* But you exhibited in three salons. What were 
your pictures? ” 





71 


THE DANGER MARK 








“T did a portrait of Lady Bylow and her ten chil- 
dren.” 

“Was it a success? ” 

He coloured. ‘ They gave me a second medal.” 

“Oh, I am so glad!” she exclaimed warmly. ‘“ And 
what were your others? ” 

“A thing called ‘ The Witch.’ Rather painful.” 

* What was it?” 

“Life size. A young girl arrested in bed. Her 
frightened beauty is playing the deuce with the people 
around. I don’t know why I did it—the painting of 
textures—her flesh, and the armour of the Puritan 
guard, the fur of the black cat—and—well, it was aca- 
demic and I was young.” 

“ Did they reward you? ” 

66 No.” 

“What was the third picture? ” 

“Oh, just a girl,” he said carelessly. 

“ Did they give you a prize for it? ” 

“'Y-yes. Only a mention.” 

“Was it a portrait? ” 

“‘Yes—in a way.” 

“What was it? Just a girl?” 

“c Yes.” 

“Who was she? ” 

“Oh, just a gir fe 

“Was she pretty? ” 

“Yes. Shall we dance this next " 

“No. Was she a model? ” 

“ She posed. ” 

Geraldine, lips on the edge of her spread fan, re- 
garded him curiously. 

“That is a very romantic life, isn’t it?” she mur- 
mured., 











72 


THE THRESHOLD 








6 What? ”? 

“Yours. I don’t know much about it; Kathleen 
took me to hear ‘ La Bohéme’; and I found Murger’s 
story in the library. I have also read ‘ Trilby.’ Did 
you—were you—was life like that when you studied in 
the Latin Quarter? ” 

He laughed. “ Not abit. I never saw that species 
of life off the stage.” 

“Oh, wasn’t there any romance? ” she asked for- 
lornly. 

** Well—as much as you find in New York or any- 
where.” 

“Is there any romance in New York? ” 

“There is anywhere, isn’t there? If only one has 
the instinct to recognise it and a capacity to compre- 
hend it.” 

** Of course,” she murmured, “ there are artists and 
studios and models and poverty everywhere. ... I 
suppose that without poverty real romance is scarcely 
possible.” 

He was still laughing when he answered: 

* Financial conditions make no difference. Romance 
is in one’s self—or it is nowhere.” 

“Ts it in—you? ” she asked audaciously. 

He made no pretence of restraining his mirth. 

“Why, I don’t know, Geraldine. Lots of people 
have the capacity for it. Poverty, art, a studio, a 
velvet jacket, and models are not essentials. . . . You 
ask if it is in me. I think it is. I think it exists in any- 
body who can glorify the commonplace. To make peo- 
ple look with astonished interest at something which 
has always been too familiar to arrest their attention— 
only your romancer can accomplish this.” 

** Please go on,” she said as he ended. “I’m lis- 


73 


THE DANGER MARK 








tening very hard. You are glorifymg commonplaces, 
you know.” 

They both laughed; he, a little red, disconcerted, 
piqued, and withal charmed at her dainty thrust at 
himself. 

“T was talking commonplaces,” he admitted, “ but 
how was I to know enough not to? Women are usually 
soulfully receptive when a painter opens a tin of mouldy 
axioms. . . . I didn’t realise I was encountering my 
peer & 

“You may be encountering more than that,” she 
said, the excitement of her success with him flushing 
her adorably. 

“Oh, I’ve heard how terribly educated you and 
Scott are. No-doubt you can floor me on anything 
intellectual. See here, Geraldine, it’s simply wicked !— 
you are so soft and pretty, and nobody could sus- 
pect you of knowing such a lot and pouncing out 
on a fellow for trying a few predigested platitudes on 
you 9 

“I don’t know anything, Duane! How perfectly 
horrid of you!” 

“Well, you’ve scared me!” 

“YT haven’t. You’re laughing at me. You know 
well enough that I don’t know the things you know.” 

“What are they, in Heaven’s name? ” 

“ Things—experiences—matters that concern life— 
the world, men, everything! ” 

“You wouldn’t be interesting if you knew such 
things,” he said. She thought there was the same curi- 
ous hint of indifference, something of listlessness, almost 
fatigue in the expression of his eyes. And again, ap- 
parently apropos of nothing, she found herself think- 
ing of what Kathleen had said about this man. 

74 








THE THRESHOLD 








“J don’t understand you,” she said, looking at 
him. 

He smiled, and the ghost of a shadow passed from 
his eyes. 

" “YT was talking at random.” 

*T don’t think you were.” 

* Why not? ” 

She shook her head, drawing a long, quiet breath. 
Silent, lips resting in softly troubled curves, she 
thought of what Kathleen had said about this man. 
What had he done to disgrace himself? 

A few moments later she rose with decision. 

* Come,” she said, unconsciously imperious. 

He looked across the room and saw Dysart. 

* But I haven’t begun to tell you—” he began; and 
she interrupted smilingly : 

“I know enough about you for a while; I have 
learned that you are a very wonderful young man and 
that I’m inclined to like you. You will come to see me, 
won’t you? .. . No, I can’t remain here another sec- 
ond. I want to go to Kathleen. I want you to ask 
her to dance, too. . . . Please don’t urge me, Duane. 
I—this is my first dinner dance—yes, my very first. 
And I don’t intend to sit in corners—I wish to dance; 
I desire to be happy. I want to see lots and lots of 
men, not just one. . . . You don’t know all the lonely 
years I must make up for every minute now, or you 
wouldn’t look at me in such a sulky, bullying way. -. . 
Besides—do you think I find you a compensation for all 
those delightful people out yonder? ” 

He glanced up and saw Dysart still watching them. 
Suddenly he dropped his hand over hers. 

“Perhaps you may find that compensation in me 
some day,” he said. ‘* How do you know? ” 


75 


THE DANGER MARK 








“What a silly thing to say! Don’t paw me, Duane; 
you hurt my hand. Look at what you’ve done to my 
fan!” 

“It came between us. I’m sorry for anything that 
comes between us.” 

Both were smiling fixedly; he said nothing for a 
moment; their gaze endured until she flinched. 

“ Silly,” she said, “ you are trying to tyrannise 
over me as you did when we were children. I remember 
now ss 

“ You did the bullying then.” 

“Did I? Then T’ll continue.” 

“ No, you won’t; it’s my turn.” 

“T will if I care to!” 

‘Pry it.” 

“Very well. Take me to Kathleen.” 

“* Not until I have the dances I want!” 

Again their eyes met in silence. Dark little lights 
glimmered in hers; his narrowed. The fixed smile died 
out. 

“The dances you want!” she repeated. “ How do 
you propose to secure them? By crushing my fingers 
or dragging me about by my hair? I want to tell you 
something, Duane: these blunt, masterful men are very 
amusing on the stage and in fiction, but they’re not 
suitable to have tagging at heel * 

“TI won’t do any tagging at heel,” he said; “ don’t 
count on it.” 

“T have no inclination to count on you at all,” she 
retorted, thoroughly irritated. 

“You will have it some day.” 

“Oh! Do you think so? ” 

“Yes. . . . I didn’t mean to speak the way I did. 
Won’t you give me a dance or two? ” 


76 








THE THRESHOLD 








‘No. I had no idea how horrid you could be... . 
I was told you were. . . . Now I can believe it. Take 
me to Kathleen; do you hear me? ” 

After a step or two he said, not looking at her: 

“T’m really sorry, Geraldine. I’m not a brute. 
Something about that fellow Dysart upset me.” 

** Please don’t talk about it any more.” 

“No. . . . Only I am glad to see you again, and 
I do care for your regard.” 

‘Then earn it,” she said unevenly, as her anger 
subsided. “I don’t know very much about men in the 
world, but I know enough to understand when they’re 
offensive.” 

eae AS 

“Yes. . . . Because you carried me away with a 
high hand, you thought it the easiest way to take with 
me on every occasion. . . . Duane, do you know, in 
some ways, we are somewhat alike? And that is why 
we used to fight so.” 

“I believe we are,” he said slowly. ‘“ But—I was 
never able to keep away from you.” 

“Which makes our outlook rather stormy, doesn’t 
it?” she said, turning to him with all of her old sweet 
friendly manner. “ Do let us agree, Duane. Mercy 
on us! we ought to adore each other—unless we have 
forgotten the quarrelsome but adorable friendship of 
our childhood. I thought you were the perfection of 
all boys.” 

“I thought there was no girl to equal you, Geral- 
dine.” 

She turned audaciously, not quite knowing what she 
was saying: 

“Think so now, Duane! It will be good for us 
both.” 

17 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Do you mean it?” 

“* Not — seriously,” she said. . . . “ And, Duane, 
please don’t be too serious with me. I am—you make 
me uncertain—you make me uncomfortable. I don’t 
know just what to say to you or just how it will be 
taken. You mustn’t be—that way—with me; you 
won’t, will you? ” 

He was silent for a moment; then his face lighted 
up. “No,” he said, laughing; “ I’ll open another can 
of platitudes. . . . You’re a dear to forgive me.” 


Dancing had been general before the cotillion ; débu- 
tantes continued to arrive in shoals from other dinners, 
a gay, rosy, eager throng, filling drawing-rooms, con- 
servatory, and library with birdlike flutter and chat- 
ter, overflowing into the breakfast-room, banked up on 
the stairs in bright-eyed battalions. 

The cotillion, led by Jack Dysart dancing alone, was 
one of those carefully thought out intellectual affairs 
which shakes New York society to its intellectual 
foundations. 

In one figure Geraldine came whizzing into the room 
in a Palm Beach tricycle-chair trimmed with orchids 
and propelled by Peter Tappan; and from her seat 
amid the flowers she distributed favours—live white 
cockatoos, clinging, flapping, screeching on gilded 
wands; fans spangled with tiny electric jewels; para- 
sols of pink silk set with incandescent lights; crys- 
tal cages containing great, pale-green Luna moths 
alive and fluttering; circus hoops of gilt filled 
with white tissue paper, through which the men 
jumped. 

There was also a Totem-pole figure—and other 
things, including supper and champagne, and the semi- 

78 


THE THRESHOLD 








obscurity of conservatory and stairs; and there was the 
usual laughter to cover heart-aches, and the inevitable 
torn gowns and crushed flowers ; and a number of young 
men talking too loud and too much in the cloak-room, 
and Rosalie Dysart admitting to Scott Seagrave in the 
conservatory that nobody really understood her; and 
Delancy Grandcourt edging about the outer borders 
of the flowery, perfumed vortex, following Geraldine 
and losing her a hundred times, 

On one of these occasions she was captured by 

Duane Mallett and convoyed to the supper-room, where 
later she became utterly transfigured into a laugh- 
ing, blushing, sparkling, delicious creature, small 
ears singing with her first venturesome glass of cham- 
pagne. 
All the world seemed laughing with her; life itself 
was only an endless bubble of laughter, swelling the 
gay, unending chorus; life was the hot breeze from 
scented fans stirring a thousand roses; life was the 
silken throng and its whirling and its feverish voices 
crying out to her to live! 

Her childhood’s playmate had come back a stranger, 
but already he was being transformed, through the 
magic of laughter, into the boy she remembered; awk- 
wardness of readjusting her relations with him had en- 
tirely vanished; she called him dear Duane, laughed at 
him, chatted with him, appealed, contradicted, rebuked, 
tyrannised, until the young fellow was clean swept off 
his feet. 

Then Dysart came, and for the second time the note 
of coquetry was struck, clearly, unmistakably, through 
the tension of a moment’s preliminary silence; and 
Duane, dumb, furious, yielded her only when she took 
Dysart’s arm with a finality that became almost inso- 

79 


THE DANGER MARK 








lent as she turned and looked back at her childhood’s 
comrade, who followed, scowling at Dysart’s graceful 
back. 

Confused by his hurt and his anger, which seemed 
out of all logical proportion to the cause of it, he 
turned abruptly and collided with Grandcourt, who had 
edged up that far, waiting for the opportunity of which 
Dysart, as usual, robbed him. 

Grandcourt apologised, muttering something about 
Mrs. Severn wishing him to find Miss Seagrave. He 
stood, awkwardly, looking after Geraldine and Dysart, 
but not offering to follow them. 

“ Lot of débutantes here—the whole year’s output,” 
he said vaguely. ‘“ What a noisy supper-room—eh, 
Mallett? I’m rather afraid champagne is responsible 
for some of it.” 

Duane started forward, halted. 

“ Did you say Mrs. Severn wants Miss Seagrave? ” 

“'Y-yes. . . . I’d better go and tell her, hadn’t I? ” 

He flushed heavily, but made no movement to follow 
Geraldine and Dysart, who had now entered the con- 
servatory and disappeared. 

For a full minute, uncomfortably silent, the two men 
stood side by side; then Duane said in a constrained 
voice: 

“TIl speak to Miss Seagrave, if you'll find her 
brother and Mrs. Severn ”; and walked slowly toward 
the palm-set rotunda. 

When he found them—and he found them easily, 
for Geraldine’s overexcited laughter warned and guided 
him—Dysart, her fan in his hands, looked up at Duane 
intensely annoyed, and the young girl tossed away a 
half-destroyed rose and glanced up, the laughter dying 
out from lips and eyes. 

80 


THE THRESHOLD 








*‘ Kathleen sent for you,” said Duane drily. 

** T’ll come in a minute, Duane.” 

‘In a moment,” repeated Dysart insolently, and 
turned his back. 

The colour surged into Mallett’s face; he turned 
sharply on his heel. 

“Wait!” said Geraldine; ‘“ Duane—do you hear 
me?” 

** T’ll take you back,” began Dysart, but she passed 
in front of him and laid her hand on Mallett’s arm. 

*'Won’t you wait for me, Duane? ” 

And suddenly things seemed to be as they had been 
in their childhood, the resurgence swept them both back 
to the old and stormy footing again. 

* Duane! ” 

* What? ” 

“JT tell you to wait for me—here!” She stamped 
her foot. 

He scowled—but waited. She turned on Dysart: . 

** Good-night ! ”—offering her hand with decision. 

Dysart began: “ But I had expected | 

** Good-night!” 

Dysart stared, took the offered hand, hesitated, 
started to speak, thought better of it, made a charac- 
teristically graceful obeisance, and an excellent exit, all 
things considered. 

Geraldine drew a deep breath, moved forward 
through the flower-set dimness a step or two, halted, 
and, as Mallett came up, passed her arm through his. 

“ Duane,” she said, “ the champagne has gone to 
my head.” 

** Nonsense! ” 

“It has! My cheeks are queer—the skin fits too 
tight. My legs don’t belong to me—but they’ll do.” 

81 





THE DANGER MARK 








She laughed and turned toward him; her feverish 
breath touched his cheek. 

“My first dinner! Isn’t it disgraceful? But how 
could I know? ” 

* You mustn’t let it scare you.” 

“It doesn’t. I don’t care. I knew something would 
go wrong. I—the truth is, that I don’t know how to 
act—how to accept my liberty. I don’t know how to 
use it. I’m a perfect fool. . . . Do you think Kath- 
leen will notice this? Isn’t it terrible! She never 
dreamed I would touch any wine. Do I look— 
queer ? ” 

“No. It isn’t so, anyway—and you'll simply lean 
on me——” 

“Oh, my knees are perfectly steady. It’s only that 
they don’t seem to belong to me. I’m—I’m excited— 
I’ve laughed too much—more than I have ever laughed 
in all the years of my life put together. You don’t 
know what I mean, do you, Duane? But it’s true; I’ve 
talked to-night more than I ever have in any one week. 
- . « And it’s gone to my head—all this—all these peo- 
ple who laugh with me over nothing—follow me, tell me 
I am pretty, ask me for dances, favours, beg me for a 
word with them—as though I would need asking or 
urging !—as though my impulse is not to open my heart 
to every one of them—open my arms to them—thank 
them on my knees for being here—for being nice to me 
—all these boys who make little circles around me—so 
funny, so quaint in their formality “ 

She pressed his arm tighter. 

“Let me rattle on—let me babble, Duane. I’ve 
years of silence to make up for. Let me talk like a 
fool; you know I’m not one. . . . Oh, the happiness of 
this one night !—the happiness of it! I never shall have 

82 





THE THRESHOLD 








enough dancing, never enough of pleasure. . « . I— 
I’m perfectly mad over pleasure; I like men... . I 
suppose the champagne makes me frank about it—but 
I don’t care—I do like men ri 

“ That one?” demanded Mallett, halting her on 
the edge of the palms which screened the conservatory 
doors. 

* You mean Mr. Dysart? Yes—I—do like him.” 

“Well, he’s married, and you’d better not,” he 
snapped. 

** C-can’t I like him? ” in piteous astonishment which 
set the colour flying into his face. 

* Why, yes—of course—I didn’t mean 

“What did you mean? Isn’t it —shouldn’t he 
ho 

** Oh, it’s all right, Geraldine. Only he’s a sort of 
a pig to keep you away from—others xf 

* Other—pigs? ” 

He turned sharply, seized her, and forcibly turned 
her toward the light. She made no effort to control her 
laughter, excusing it between breaths: 

“ T didn’t mean to turn what you said into ridicule; 
it came out before I meant it. . . . Do let me laugh a 
little, Duane. I simply cannot care about anything 
serious for a while—I want to be frivolous G 

* Don’t laugh so loud,” he whispered. 

She released his arm and sank down on a marble 
seat behind the flowering oleanders. 

“* Why are you so disagreeable?” she pouted. “I 
know I’m a perfect fool, and the champagne has gone 
to my silly head—and you'll never catch me this way 
again. . . . Don’t scowl at me. Why don’t you act 
like other men? Don’t you know how?” 

* Know how? ” he repeated, looking down into the 

83 





bb 











THE DANGER MARK 








adorably flushed face uplifted. “ Know how to do 
what? ” 

“To flirt. I don’t. Everybody has tried to teach 
me to-night—everybody except you... Duane... . 
I’m ready to go home; I’ll go. Only my head is whirl- 
ing so— Tell me—are you glad to see me again? 
. » « Really? . . . And you don’t mind my folly? And 
my tormenting you? ... And my—my turning your 
head a little? ”? 

“You’ve done that,” he said, forcing a laugh. 

“Have I? ... I knewit. ... You see, I am hor- 
ridly truthful to-night. In vino veritas! . . . Tell me 
—did I, all by myself, turn that too-experienced head 
of yours? ” 

“ You’re doing it now,” he said. 

She laughed deliciously. “Now? Am I? Yes, I 
know I am. I’ve made a lot of men think hard to- 
night. . . . I didn’t know I could; I never before 
thought of it. . . . And—even you, too? . . . You’re 
not very serious, are you? ” 

“Yes, Iam. I tell you, Geraldine, I’m about as 
much in love with you as 4 

“In love!” 








“ Yes bb 
“No!” 
“Yes, I am sz 





But she would not have it put so crudely. 

“You dear boy,” she said, “ we’ll both be quite sane 
to-morrow. . . . No, I don’t mind your kissing my 
hand—I’m dreadfully tired, anyway. . . . We'll find 
Kathleen, shall we? My head doesn’t buzz much.” 

“Geraldine,” he said, deliberately encircling her 
waist, “ you are only the same small girl I used to know, 
after all.” 

84 











9299 


“Duane!” she gasped—‘ why did yout 
gasp y : 





THE THRESHOLD 








* 'Y-yes, I’m afraid so.” 

** And you’re not really old enough to really care 
for anybody, are you? ” 

“ Carer.” 

*¢ Love.” 

“No, ’m not. Don’t talk to me that way, Duane.” 

He drew her suddenly into his arms and kissed her 
on the cheek twice, and again on the mouth, as, crimson, 
breathless, she strained away from him. 

“Duane!” she gasped—“ why did you?” Then 
the throbbing of her body and crushed lips made her 
furious. ‘‘ Why did you do that?” she cried fiercely— 
but her voice ended in a dry sob; she covered her head 
and face with bare arms; her hands tightened convul- 
sively and clenched. 

“Oh,” she said, * how could you!—when I came to 
you — feeling — afraid of myself! I know you now. 
You are what they say you are.” 

** What do they say I am?” he stammered. 

** Horrid—I don’t know—wild !—whatever that im- 
plies. . . . I didn’t care—I didn’t care even to under- 
stand, because I thought you generous and nice to me 
—and I was so confident of you that I came with you 
and told you I had had some champagne which made 
my head swim. . . . And you—did this! It—it was 
contemptible.” 

He bit his lip, but said nothing. 

“Why did you do it? ” she demanded, dropping her 
arms from her face and staring at him. “Is that the 
sort of thing you did abroad? ” 

** Can’t you see I’m in love with you?” he said. 

“Oh! Is that love? Then keep it for your models 
and—and Bohemian grisettes! A decent man couldn’t 
have done such a thing to me. I—TI loathe myself for 

85 


THE DANGER MARK 








being silly and weak enough to have touched that wine, 
but I have more contempt for you than I have for my- 
self. What you did was cowardly!” 

Much of the colour had fled from her face; her eyes, 
bluish underneath the lower lids, turned wearily, help- 
lessly in search of Kathleen. 

“T knew I was unfit for liberty,” she said, half to 
herself. ‘ What an ending to my first pleasure!” 

“For Heaven’s sake, Geraldine,” he broke out, 
“don’t take an accident so tragically Ze 

“TI want Kathleen. Do you hear? ” 

“Very well; I'll find her. . . . And, whatever you 
say or think, I am in love with you,” he added fiercely. 

His voice, his words, were meaningless ; she was con- 
scious only of the heavy pulse in throat and temple, of 
the desire for her room and darkness. Lights, music, 
the scent of dying flowers, laughter, men, all had be- 
come abhorrent. Something within her lay bruised and 
stunned; and, as never before, the vast and terrible 
phantom of her loneliness rose like a nightmare to 
menace her. 

Later Kathleen came and took her away. 





CHAPTER IV 
THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 


Her first winter resembled, more or less, the first 
winter of the average debutante. 

Under the roof of the metropolitan social temple 
there was a niche into which her forefathers had fitted. 
- Within the confines of this she expected, and was ex- 
pected, to live and move and have her being, and ulti- 
mately wing upward to her God, leaving the conse- 
crated cubby-hole reserved for her descendants. 

She did what her sister debutantes did, and some 
things they did not do, was asked where they were 
asked, decorated the same tier of boxes at the opera, 
appeared in the same short-skirted entertainments of 
the Junior League, saw what they saw, was seen where 
they were seen, chattered, danced, and flirted with the 
- same youths, was smitten by the popular “ dancing ” 
man, convalesced in average time, smoked her first cig- 
arette, fell a victim to the handsome and horrid mar- 
ried destroyer, recovered with a shock when, as usual, 
he overdid it, played at being engaged, was kissed once 
or twice, adored Sembrich, listened ignorantly but with 
intuitive shudders to her first scandals, sent flowers to 
Ethel Barrymore, kept Lent with the pure fervour of 
a conscience troubled and untainted, drove four in the 
coaching parade, and lunched afterward at the Com- 
monwealth Club, where her name was subsequently put 
up for election. 


7 87 


THE DANGER MARK 








Spectacular charities lured her from the Plaza to 
Sherry’s, from Sherry’s to the St. Regis; church work 
beguiled her; women’s suffrage, led daintily in a series 
of circles by Fashion and Wealth, enlisted her passive 
patronage. She even tried the slums, but the perfume 
was too much for her. 

All the small talk and epigrams of the various petty 
impinging circles under the social dome passed into 
and out of her small ears—gossip, epigrams, apho- 
risms, rumours, apropos surmises, asides, and off-stage 
observations, subtle with double entendre, harmless and 
otherwise. 

She met people of fashion, of wealth, and both; and 
now and then encountered one or two of those men and 
women of real distinction whose names and peregrin- 
ations are seldom chronicled in the papers. 

She heard the great artists of the two operas sing 
in private; was regaled with information concerning 
the remarkable decency or indecency of their private 
careers. She saw fashionable plays which instructed 
the public about squalor, murder, and men’s mistresses, 
which dissected very skilfully and artistically the ethics 
of moral degradation. And being as healthy and curi- 
ous as the average girl, she found in the theatres ma- 
terial with which to inform herself about certain oc- 
cult mysteries concerning which, heretofore, she had 
been left mercifully in doubt. 

In spite of Kathleen, it was inevitable that she 
should acquire from the fashionable in literature, music, 
and the drama, that sorry and unnecessary wisdom 
which ages souls. 

And if what she saw or heard ever puzzled her, 
there was always somebody, young or old, to enlighten 
her innocent perplexity; and with each illumination 

88 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








she shrank a little less aloof from this shabby wisdom 
gilded with “ art,” which she could not choose but ac- 
cept as fact, but the depravity of which she never was 
entirely able to comprehend. 

In March the Seagrave twins arrived at the alleged 
age of discretion. On their twenty-first birthday the 
Half Moon Trust Company went solemnly into court 
and rendered an accounting of its stewardship; the 
yearly reports which it had made during the term of 
its trusteeship were brought forward, examined by the 
court, and the great Half Moon Trust Company was 
given an honourable discharge. It had done its duty. 
The twins were masters of their financial and moral 
fate. 

It was about that moribund period of the social 
solstice when the fag end of the season had fizzled out 
like a wet firecracker in the April rains; and Geraldine 
and Kathleen were tired, mentally and bodily. And 
Scott was buying polo ponies from a British friend and 
shotguns from a needy gentleman from Long Island. 

It had been rather trying work to rid Geraldine of 
the aspirants for her fortune; during the winter she 
was proposed to under almost every conceivable condi- 
tion and circumstance. Kathleen had been bored and 
badgered and bothered and importuned to the verge of 
exhaustion; Scott was used, shamelessly, without his 
suspecting it, and he generally had in tow a string of 
financially spavined aspirants who linked arms with him 
from club to club, from theatre to opera, from grille 
to grille, until he was pleasantly bewildered at his own 
popularity. 

Geraldine was surprised, confused, shamed, irritated 
in turn with every new importunity. But she remained 
sensible enough to be quite frank and truthful with 

89 


THE DANGER MARK 








Kathleen, except for an exciting secret engagement 
with Bunbury Gray which lasted for two weeks. And 
Kathleen was given strength sufficient for each case as 
it presented itself; and now the fag end of the season 
died out; the last noble and indigent foreigner had 
been eluded; the last old beau foiled; the last squab- 
headed dancing man successfully circumvented. And 
now the gallinaceous half of the world was leaving town 
in noisy and glittering migration, headed for tempo- 
rary roosts all over the globe, from Newport to Nova 
Scotia, from Kineo to Kara Dagh. 

Country houses were opening throughout the West- 
ern Hemisphere; Long Island stirred from its long 
winter lethargy, stung into active life by the Oyster 
Bay mosquito; town houses closed; terrace, pillar, por- 
tico, and windows were already being boarded over; 
lace curtains came down; textiles went to the cleaners; 
the fresh scent of camphor and lavender lingered in the 
mellow half-light of rooms where furniture and pictures 
loomed linen-shrouded and the polished floor echoed 
every footstep. 

In the sunny gloom of the Seagrave house Geral- 
dine found a grateful retreat from the inspiring glare 
and confused racket of her first winter; ample time for 
rest, reverie, and reflection, with only a few intimates 
to break her meditations, only informality to reckon 
with, and plenty of leisure to plan for the summer. 

Around the house, trees and rhododendrons were 
now in freshest bloom, flower-beds fragrant, grass ten- 
derly emerald. The moving shadows of maple leaves 
patterned the white walls of her bedroom; wind-blown 
gusts of wistaria fragrance, from the long, grapelike, 
violet-tinted bunches swaying outside the window, puffed 
out her curtains every morning. 


90 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








At night subtler perfumes stole upward from the 
dark garden; the roar of traffic from the avenues was 
softened; carriage lights in the purpling dusk of the 
Park moved like firebugs drifting through level wooded 
vistas. Across the reservoir lakes the jewelled night- 
zone of the West Side sparkled, reflected across the 
water in points of trembling flame; south, a gemmed 
bar of topaz light, upright against the sky, marked 
the Plaza; beyond, sprinkled into space like constel- 
lations dusting endless depths, the lights of the city 
receded far as the eye could see. 

In the zenith the sky is always tinted with the 
strange, sinister night-glow of the metropolis, red as 
fire-licked smoke when fog from the bay settles, pallid 
as the very shadow of light when nights are clear; but 
it is always there—always will be there after the sun 
goes down into the western seas, and the eyes of the 
monstrous iron city burn on through the centuries. 


One morning late in April Geraldine Seagrave rode 
up under the porte-cochére with her groom, dis- 
mounted, patted her horse sympathetically, and _ re- 
garded with concern the limping animal as the groom 
led him away to the stables. Then she went up- 
stairs. 

To Kathleen, who was preparing to go out, she 
said: 

“TI had scarcely entered the Park, my dear, when 
poor Bibi pulled up lame. No, I told Redmond not 
to saddle another; I suppose Duane will be furious. 
Where are you going? ” 

“T don’t know. Shall I wait for you? I’ve or- 
dered a victoria.” : 

“No, thanks. You look so pretty this morning, 

91 


THE DANGER MARK 








Kathleen. Sometimes you appear younger than I do. 
Scott was pig enough to say so the other day when I 
had a headache. It’s true enough, too,” she added, 
smiling. 

Kathleen Severn laughed; she looked scarcely more 
than twenty-five and she knew it. 

“You pretty thing!” exclaimed Geraldine, kissing 
her, “no wonder you attract the really interesting men 
and leave me the dreadful fledglings! It’s bad of you; 
and I don’t see why I’m stupid enough to have such an 
attractive woman for my closest ”—a kiss—* dearest 
friend! Even Duane is villain enough to tell me that 
he finds you overwhelmingly attractive. Did you know 
bP? 

Geraldine’s careless gaiety seemed spontaneous 
enough ; yet there was the slightest constraint in Kath- 
leen’s responsive smile: 

“ Duane isn’t to be taken seriously,” she said. 

“Not by any means,” nodded Geraldine, twirling 
her crop. 

“Tm glad you understand him,” observed Kath- 
leen, gazing at the point of her sunshade. She looked 
up presently and met Geraldine’s dark gaze. Again 
there came that almost imperceptible hesitation; then: 

“T certainly do understand Duane Mallett,” said 
Geraldine carelessly. 

“ Shall I wait for you? ” asked Kathleen. “ We can 
lunch out together and drive in the Park later.” 

“Tm too lazy even to take off my boots and habit. 
Where’s that volume of Mendez you thought fit to hide 
from me, you wretch? ” 

“Why on earth did you buy it?” 

“TI bought it because Rosalie Dysart says Mendez 
is a great modern master of prose——” 
92 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








“And Rosalie is a great modern mistress of pose. 
Don’t read Mendez.” 

“Tsn’t it necessary for a girl to read 

“No, it isn’t!” 

“TI don’t want to be ignorant. Besides, I’m—curi- 
ous to know a 

** Be decently curious, dearest. There’s a danger 
mark; don’t cross it.” 

“I don’t wish to.” 

She stretched out her arms, crop in hand, doubled 
them back, and head tipped on one side, yawned shame- 
lessly at her own laziness. 

“ Scott is becoming very restless,” she said. 

“ About going away?” 

“Yes. I really do think, Kathleen, that we ought 
to have some respectable country place to go to. It 
would be nice for Scott and the servants and the horses ; 
and you and I need not stay there if it bores us " 

“Ts he still thinking of that Roya-Neh place? It’s 
horridly expensive to keep up. Oh, I knew quite well 
that Scott would bully you into consenting 

“ Roya-Neh seems to suit us both,” admitted the 
girl indifferently. ‘The shooting and fishing natu- 
rally attract Scott; they say it’s secluded enough for 
you and me to recuperate in; and if we ever want any 
guests, it’s big enough to entertain dozens in... . I 
really don’t care one way or the other; you know I 
never was very crazy about the country—and poison 
ivy, and mosquitoes and oil-smelling roads, and hot 
nights, and the perfume of fertilisers fs 

“You poor child!” laughed Kathleen; “ you don’t 
know anything about the country except where you’ve 
been on Long Island in the immediate vicinity of your 
grandfather’s horrid old place.” 

93 


39 

















THE DANGER MARK 








“Ts it any more agreeable up there near Canada?” 

“Roya-Neh is very lovely—of course—but—it’s 
certainly not a wise investment, dear.” 

“ Well, if Scott and I buy it, we’d never wish to 
sell it 

“ Suppose you were obliged to?” 

Geraldine’s velvet eyes widened lazily: 

“ Obliged to? Oh—yes—you mean if we went to 
smash.” 

Then her gaze became remote as she stood slowly 
tapping her gloved palm with her riding-crop. 

“JT think I'll dress,” she said absently. 

** Good-bye, then,” nodded Kathleen. 

** Good-bye,” said the girl, turning lightly away 
across the hall. Kathleen’s eyes followed the slender 
retreating figure, so slimly compact in its buoyancy. 
There was always something fascinatingly boyish in 
Geraldine’s light, free carriage—just a touch of care- 
lessness in the poise—almost a swing at times to the 
step. Duane had once said: “‘ She has a bully walk!” 
Kathleen thought of it as, passing a mirror, she caught 
sight of herself. And the sudden glimpse of her own 
warm, rich beauty in all its exquisite maturity startled 
her. Surely she seemed to be growing younger. 

She was. Dark-violet eyes, ruddy hair, a superb 
figure, a skin so white that it looked fragrant, made 
Kathleen Severn amazingly attractive. Men found her, 
to their surprise, rather unresponsive. She was amia- 
ble enough, nicely formal, and perfectly bred, it is 
true, but inclined to that sort of aloofness which is 
marked by lapses of inattention and the meee silences 
of preoccupation. 

She had married, very young, an army ae con- 
valescing from Texan fever. He died suddenly on the 

94 





THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








very eve of their postponed wedding-trip. This was 
enough to account for lapses of inattention in any 
woman. 

But Kathleen Severn had never been demonstrative. 
She was slow to care for people. Besides, the responsi- 
bility of bringing up the Seagrave twins had been suf- 
ficient to subdue anybody’s spirits. She was only 
nineteen and a widow of a month when her distant rela~ 
tive, Magnelius Grandcourt, found her the position as 
personal guardian of the twins, then aged nine. Now 
they were twenty-one and she thirty-one; twelve years 
of service, twelve years of steady fidelity, which long 
ago had become a changeless and passionate devotion, 
made up of all she might have given to the dead, and 
of the unborn happiness she had never known. What 
other sort of love, if there was any, lay within her 
undeveloped, nobody knew because nobody had ever 
aroused it. 

Sunshine transformed into great golden transpar- 
encies the lowered shades in the living room where Ger- 
aldine stood, pensive, distraite, idly twirling her crop . 
by the loop. Presently it flew off her gloved forefinger 
and fell clattering across the carpetless floor. She 
bathed and dressed leisurely ; later, when luncheon was 
brought to her, she dropped into a low, wide chair and, 
ignoring everything except the strawberries, turned 
her face to the breeze which was softly rattling the 
southern curtains. 

Errant thoughts, light as summer fleece, drifted 
across her mind. Often, in such moments, she strove 
to realise that she was now mistress of herself; but 
never could completely. 

“For example: if I want to buy Roya-Neh,” she 
mused, biting into an enormous strawberry, “I can do 

8 95 


THE DANGER MARK 








it. . . . All I have to do is to say that P’ll buy it... . 
And I can live there if I choose—as long as I choose. 
. . . It’s a very agreeable sensation. . . . I can have 
anything I fancy, without asking Mr. Tappan... . 
It’s rather odd that I don’t want anything.” 

She crossed her ankles and lay back watching the 
sun-moats floating. 

** Suppose,” she murmured with perverse humour, 
* that I wished to build a bungalow in Timbuctoo .. . 
or stand on my head, now, this very moment! Nobody 
on earth could stop me. . . . I believe I will stand on 
my head for a change.” 

The sudden smile made the curve of her cheek deli- 
cious. She sprang to her feet, spread her napkin on 
the polished floor, then gravely bending double, placed 
both palms flat on the square of damask, balanced and 
raised her body until the straight, slim limbs were rig- 
idly pointed toward heaven. 

Down tumbled her hair; her cheeks crimsoned ; then 
dainty as a lithe and spangled athlete, she turned clean 
. over in the air, landing lightly on both feet breathing 
fast. 

“It’s disgraceful!” .she murmured; “I am cer- 
tainly out of condition. Late hours are my undoing. 
Also cigarettes. I wish I didn’t like to smoke.” | 

She lighted one and strolled about the room, knot- 
ting up her dark hair, heels clicking sharply over the 
bare, polished floor. 

Lacking a hair-peg, she sauntered off to her own 
apartments to find one, where she remained, lolling in 
the chaise-longue, alternately blowing smoke rings into 
the sunshine and nibbling a bonbon soaked in cologne. 
Only a girl can accomplish such combinations. How 
she ever began this silly custom of hers she couldn’t 

96 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








remember, except that, when a small child, somebody 
had forbidden her to taste brandied peach syrup, which 
she adored; and the odour of cologne being similarly 
pleasant, she had tried it on her palate and found that 
it produced agreeable sensations. 

It had become a habit. She was conscious of it, but 
remained indifferent because she didn’t know anything 
about habits. 

So all that sunny afternoon she lay in the chaise- 
longue, alternately reading and dreaming, her scented 
bonbons at her elbow. Later a maid brought tea; 
and a little later Duane Mallett was announced. He 
sauntered in, a loosely knit, graceful figure, still 
wearing his riding-clothes and dusty boots of the 
morning. 

Geraldine Seagrave had had time enough to dis- 
cover, during the past winter, that her old playfellow 
was not at all the kind of man he appeared to be. 
Women liked him too easily and he liked them without 
effort. There was always some girl in love with him 
until he was found kissing another. His tastes were 
amiably catholic; his caress instinctively casual. Beauty 
when responsive touched him. No girl he knew needed 
to remain unconsoled. 

The majority of women liked him; so did Geraldine 
Seagrave. The majority instinctively watched him; so 
did she. In close acquaintance the man was a disap- 
pointment. It seemed as though there ought to be 
something deeper in him than the lightly humourous 
mockery with which he seemed to regard his very great 
talent—a flippancy that veiled always what he said 
and did and thought until nobody could clearly un- 
derstand what he really thought about anything; 
and some people doubted that he thought at all— 

97 


THE DANGER MARK 








particularly the thoughtless whom he had carelessly 
consoled. 

Women were never entirely indifferent concerning 
him; there remained always a certain amount of curi- 
osity, whether they found him attractive or otherwise. 

His humourous indifference to public opinions, bor- 
dering on effrontery, was not entirely unattractive to 
women, but it always, sooner or later, aroused their 
distrust. 

The main trouble with Duane Mallett seemed to be 
his gaily cynical willingness to respond to any advance, 
however slight, that any pretty woman offered. This 
responsive partiality was disconcerting enough to 
make him dreaded by ambitious mothers, and an object 
of uneasy interest to their decorative offspring who 
were inclined to believe that a rescue party of one might 
bring this derelict into port and render him seaworthy 
for the voyage of life under their own Remco 
command. 

Besides, he was a painter. Women like them when 
they are carefully washed and clothed. 


As Duane Mallett strolled into the living-room, 
Geraldine felt again, as she so often did, a slight sense 
of insecurity mingle with her liking for the man, or 
what might have been liking if she could ever feel abso- 
lute confidence in him. She had been, at times, very 
close to caring a great deal for him, when now and 
again it flashed over her that there must be in him 
something serious under his brilliant talent and the idle 
perversity which mocked at it. 

But now she recognised in his smile and manner 
everything that kept her from ever caring to under- 
stand him—the old sense of insecurity in his ironical] 


98 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








formality; and her outstretched hand fell away from 
his with indifference. 

“JT didn’t have the happiness of riding with you, 
after all,” he said, serenely seating himself and drop- 
ping one lank knee over the other. ‘ Promises wouldn’t 
be valuable unless somebody broke a lot now and then.” 

“You probably had the happiness of riding with 
some other woman.” 

He nodded. 

“Who, this time? ” 

“ Rosalie Dysart.” 

Rumour had been busy with their names recently. 
The girl’s face became expressionless. 

“Sorry you didn’t come,” he said, looking out of 
the window where the flapping shade revealed a lilac: 
in bloom. 

“* How long did you wait for me? ” 

** About a minute. Then Rosalie passed ? 

* Rosalies will always continue to pass through your 
career, my omnivorous friend. . . . Did it even occur 
to you to ride over here and find out why I missed our 
appointment? ” 

“No; why didn’t you come? ” 

“ Bibi went lame. I’d have had another horse sad- 
dled if I hadn’t seen you, over my shoulder, join Mrs. 
Dysart.” 

“Too bad,” he commented listlessly. 

“Why? You had a perfectly good time without 
me, didn’t you? ” 

“Oh, yes, pretty good. Delancy Grandcourt was 
out after luncheon, and when Rosalie left he stuck to 
me and talked about you until I let my horse bolt, and 
it stirred up a few mounted policemen and riding- 
schools, I can tell you! ” 


99 





THE DANGER MARK 








“Oh, so you lunched with Mrs. Dysart?” 

“Yes. Where is Kathleen? ” 

“ Driving,” said the girl briefly. “If you don’t 
care for any tea, there is mineral water and a decanter 
over there.” 

He thanked her, rose and mixed himself what he 
wanted, and began to walk leisurely about, the ice tin- 
kling in the glass which he held. At intervals he 
quenched his thirst, then resumed his aimless prome- 
nade, a slight smile on his face. 

“ Has anything particularly interesting happened 
to you, Duane?” she asked, and somehow thought of 
Rosalie Dysart. 

66 No.”’ 

“ How are your pictures coming on? ” 

“The portrait?” he asked absently. 

“Portrait? I thought all the very grand ladies 
you paint had left town. Whose portrait are you 
painting? ” 

Before he answered, before he even hesitated, she 
knew. ; 

“Rosalie Dysart’s,” he said, gazing absently at the 
lilac-bush in flower as the wind-blown curtain revealed 
it for a moment. 

She lifted her dark eyes curiously. He began to 
stir the ice in his glass with a silver paper-cutter. 

“She is wonderfully beautiful, isn’t she?” said the 
girl. 

“ Overwhelmingly.” 

Geraldine shrugged and gazed into space. She 
didn’t exactly know why she had given that little hitch 
to her shoulders. 

“Td like to paint Kathleen,” he observed. 

A flush tinted the girl’s cheeks. She said nervously : 

100 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








“Why don’t you ask her? ” 

“T’ve meant to. Somehow, one doesn’t ask things 
lightly of Kathleen.” 

* One doesn’t ask things of some women at all,” she 
remarked. 

He looked up; she was examining her empty teacup 
with fixed interest. 

“ Ask what sort of thing?” he inquired, walking 
over to the table and resting his glass on it. 

“ Oh, I don’t know what I meant. Nothing. What 
is that in your glass? Let me taste it... . Ugh! 
It’s Scotch!” 

She set back the glass with a shudder. After a 
few moments she picked it up again and tasted it dis- 
dainfully. 

“Do you like this? ” she demanded with youthful 
contempt. 

“ Pretty well,” he admitted. 

“Tt tastes something like brandied peaches, doesn’t 
it? ” 

“T never noticed that it did.” 

And as he remained smilingly aloof and silent, at 
intervals, tentatively, uncertain whether or not she ex- 
actly cared for it, she tasted the iced contents of the 
tall, frosty glass and watched him where he sat loosely 
at ease flicking at sun-moats with the loop of his riding- 
crop. 

“Td like to see a typical studio,” she said reflec- 
tively. 

“ T’ve asked you to mine often enough.” 

“Yes, to tea with other people. I don’t mean that 
way. I'd like to see it when it’s not all dusted and in 
order for feminine inspection. I’d like to see a man’s 
studio when it’s in shape for work—with the gr-r-reat 

101 


THE DANGER MARK 








painter in a fine frenzy painting, and the model posing 
madly ra 

“Come on, then! If Kathleen lets you, and you can 
stand it, come down and knock some day unexpectedly.” 

“O Duane! I couldn’t, could I? ” 

“Not with propriety. But come ahead.” 

** Naturally, impropriety appeals to you.” 

“Naturally. To you, too, doesn’t it?” 

“No. But wouldn’t it astonish you if you heard a 
low, timid knocking some day when you and your Bo- 
hemian friends were carousing and having a riotous 
time there——” 

“Yes, it would, but I’m afraid that: low, timid 
knocking couldn’t be heard in the infernal uproar of 
our usual revelry.” 

“Then I’d knock louder and louder, and perhaps 
kick once or twice if you didn’t come to the door and 
let me in.” ' 

He laughed. After a moment she laughed, too; her 
dark eyes were very friendly now. Watching the 
amusement in his face, she continued to sip from his 
tall, frosted glass, quite unconscious of any distaste 
for it. On the contrary, she experienced a slight 
exhilaration which was gradually becoming delightful 
to her. 

* Scotch-and-soda is rather nice, after all,” she ob- 
served. “I had no idea— What is the matter with 
you, Duane? ” 

“You haven’t swallowed all that, have you? ” 

* Yes, is it much? ” 

He stared, then with a shrug: “ You’d better cut 
out that sort of thing.” 

“What?” she asked, surprised. 

* What you’re doing.” 

102 





THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








“Tasting your Scotch? Pooh!” she said, “ it isn’t 
strong. Do you think I’m a baby?” 

“Go ahead,” he said, “ it’s your funeral.” 

Legs crossed, chin acerttip on the butt of his riding- 
crop, he lay back in his chair watching her. 

Women of her particular type had always fasci- 
nated him; Fifth Avenue is thronged with them in 
sunny winter mornings—tall, slender, faultlessly 
gowned girls, free-limbed, narrow of wrist and foot; 
cleanly built, engaging, fearless-eyed; and Geraldine 
was one of a type characteristic of that city and of the 
sunny Avenue where there pass more beautiful women 
on a December morning than one can see abroad in half 
a dozen years’ residence. 

How on earth this hemisphere bad managed to 
evolve them out of its original material nobody can 
explain. And young Mallett, recently from the older 
hemisphere, was still in a happy trance of surprise at 
the discovery. 

Lounging there, watching her where she sat warmly 
illumined by the golden light of the window-shade, he 
said lazily:. 

“Do you know that Fifth Avenue is always 
thronged with you, Geraldine? I’ve nearly twisted my 
head off trying not to miss the assorted visions of you 
which float past afoot or driving. Some day one of 
them will unbalance me. T’ll leap into her victoria, 
ask her if she’d mind the temporary inconvenience of 
being adored by a stranger; and if she’s a good sport 
she’ll take a chance. Don’t you think so? ” 

“It’s more than I'd take with you,” said the girl. 

* You’ve said that several times.” 

He laughed, then looked up at her half humorously, 
half curiously. 

103 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ You would be taking no chances, Geraldine.” 

“ T’d be taking chances of finding you holding some 
other girl’s hands within twenty-four hours. And you 
know it.” 

“‘ Hasn’t anybody ever held yours? ” 

Displeasure tinted her cheeks a deeper red, but she 
merely shrugged her shoulders. 

It was true that in the one evanescent and secret 
affair of her first winter she had not escaped the calf- 
like transports of Bunbury Gray. She had felt, if she 
had not returned them, the furtively significant press- 
ure of men’s hands in the gaiety and whirl of things; 
ardent and chuckle-headed youth had declared itself in 
conservatories and in corners; one impetuous mauling 
from a smitten Harvard boy of eighteen had left her 
furiously vexed with herself for her passive attitude 
while the tempest passed. True, she had vigorously re- 
proved him later. She had, alas, occasion, during her 
first season, to reprove several demonstrative young 
men for their unconventionally athletic manner of de- 
claring their suits. She had been far more severe with 
the humble, unattractive, and immobile, however, than 
with the audacious and ornamental who had _at- 
tempted to take her by storm. A sudden if awk- 
ward kiss followed. by the fiery declaration of the 
hot-headed disturbed her less than the persistent 
stare of an enamoured pair of eyes. As a child 
the description of an assault on a citadel always inter- 
ested her, but she had neither sympathy nor interest 
in a siege. 

Now, musing there in the sunlight on the events of 
her first winter, she became aware that she had been 
more or less instructed in the ways of men; and, re- 
membering, she lifted her disturbed eyes to inspect this 

104 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








specimen of a sex which often perplexed but always 
interested her. 

“What are you smiling about, Duane?” she asked 
defiantly. 

“Your arraignment of me when half the men in 
town have been trying to marry you all winter. You’ve 
made a reputation for yourself, too, Geraldine.” 

** As what?” she asked angrily. 

** A head-twister.” 

“Do you mean a flirt?” 

“Oh, Lord! Only the French use that term now. 
But that’s the idea, Geraldine. You area born one. I 
fell for the first smile you let loose on me.” 

* You seem to have been a sort of general Humpty 
Dumpty for falls all your life, Duane,” she said with 
dangerous sweetness. 

* Like that immortal, I’ve had only one which per- 
manently shattered me.” 

** Which was that, if you please? ” 

* The fall you took out of me.” 

“In other words,” she said disdainfully, “ you are 
beginning to make love to me again.” 

“No. . . . I was in love with you.” 

“You were in love with yourself, young man. 
You are on such excellent terms with yourself that. 
you sympathise too ardently with any attractive wom- 
an who takes the least and most innocent notice of 
you.” : 

He said, very much amused: “ I was perfectly seri- 
ous over you, Geraldine.” 

“The selfish always take themselves seriously.” 

It was she, however, who now sat there bright-eyed 
and unsmiling, and he was still laughing, deftly bal-. 
ancing his crop on one finger, and glancing at her from 

105 


THE DANGER MARK 








time to time with that glimmer of ever-latent mockery 
which always made her restive at first, then irritated 
her with an unreasoning desire to hurt him somehow. 
But she never seemed able to reach him. 

“Sooner or later,” she said, “ women will find you 
out, thoroughly.” 

“ And then, just think what a rush there will be 
to marry me!” 

** There will be a rush to avoid you, Duane. And it 
will set in before you know it—” She thought of the 
recent gossip coupling his name with Rosalie’s, red- 
dened and bit her lip in silence. But somehow the 
thought irritated her into speech again: 

* Fortunately, I was among the first to find you out 
—the first, I think.” 

** Heavens! when was that? ” he asked in pretended 
concern, which infuriated her. 

“You had better not ask me,” she flashed back. 
“When a woman suddenly discovers that a man is un- 
trustworthy, do you think she ever forgets it? ” 

“ Because I once kissed you? What a dreadful 
deed ! ” 

“You forget the circumstances under which you 
did it.” 

He flushed; she had managed to hurt him, after all. 
He began patiently: 

“ T’ve explained to you a dozen times that I didn’t 
know ao 

“ But I told you!” 

“ And I couldn’t believe you 

“ But you expect me to believe you? ” 

He could not exactly spies bla! her vei smiling, 
steady gaze. ee. 

“The trouble with you is,” ite said, “that there 

* 106 








THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








is nothing to you but good looks and _ talent. 
There was once, but it died—over in Europe—some- 
where. No woman trusts a man like you. Don’t you 
know it?” 

His smile did not seem to be very genuine, but he 
answered lightly: 

** When I ask people to have confidence in me, it will 
be time for them to pitch into me.” 

“* Didn’t you once ask me for your confidence—and 
then abuse it? ” she demanded. 

“TI told you I loved you—if that is what you mean. 
And you doubted it so strenuously that, perhaps I 
might be excused for doubting it myself. . . . What is 
the use of talking this way, Geraldine? ” 

There was a ring of exasperation in her laughter. 
She lifted his glass, sipped a little, and, looking over it 
at him: 

“I drink to our doubts concerning each other: may 
nothing ever occur to disturb them.” 

Her cheeks had begun to burn, her eyes were too 
bright, her voice unmodulated. : 

“Whether or not you ever again take the trouble 
to ask me to trust you in that way,” she said, “ I’ll tell 
you now why I don’t and why I never could. It may 
amuse you. Shall 1?” 

“ By all means,” he replied amiably ; “ but it seems 
to me as though you are rather rough on me.” 

“You were rougher with me the first time I saw 
you, after all those years. I met you with perfect con- 
fidence, remembering what you once were. It was my 
first grown-up party. I was only a fool of a girl, 
merely ignorant, unfit to be trusted with a liberty I'd 
never before had. . . . And I took one glass of cham- 
pagne and it—you know what it did. . . . And I was 

107 


THE DANGER MARK 








bewildered and frightened, and I told you; and—you 
perhaps remember how my confidence in my old play- 
fellow was requited. Do you?” 

Reckless impulse urged her on. Heart and pulses 
were beating very fast with a persistent desire to hurt 
him. Her animation, brilliant colour, her laughter 
seemed to wing every word like an arrow. She knew he 
shrank from what she was saying, in spite of his polite 
attention, and her fresh, curved cheek and parted lips 
took on a brighter tint. Something was singing, 
seething in her veins. She lifted her glass, set it down, 
and suddenly pushed it from her so violently that it 
fell with a crash. A wave of tingling heat mounted to 
her face, receded, swept back again. Confused, she 
straightened up in her chair, breathing fast. What 
was coming over her? Again the wave surged back 
with a deafening rush; her senses struggled, the 
blood in her ran riot. Then terror clutched her. 
Neither lips nor tongue were very flexible when she 
spoke. 

* Duane—if you don’t mind—would you go away 
now? I’ve a wretched headache.” 

He shrugged and stood up. 

“It’s curious,” he said reflectively, “ how utterly 
determined we seem to be to misunderstand each other. 
If you would give me half a chance—well—never mind.” 

“YT wish you would go,” she murmured, “TI really 
am not well.” She could scarcely hear her own voice 
amid the deafening tumult of her pulses. Fright stiff- 
ened the fixed smile on her lips. Her plight paralysed 
her for a moment. 

“Yes, I’ll go,” he answered, smiling. “I usually 
am going somewhere—most of the time.” 

He picked up hat, gloves, and crop, looked down at 

108 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








her, came and stood at the table, resting one hand on 
the edge. 

“We're pretty young yet, Geraldine. . . . I never 
saw a girl I cared for as I might have cared for you. 
It’s true, no matter what I have done, or may do... . 
But you’re quite right, a man of that sort isn’t to be 
considered ”—-he laughed and pulled on one glove— 
*“ only—I knew as soon as I saw you that it was to be 
you or—everybody. First, it was anybody ; then it was 
you—now it’s everybody. Good-bye.” 

** Good-bye,” she managed to say. The dizzy waves 
swayed her; she rested her cheeks between both hands 
and, leaning there heavily, closed her eyes to fight 
against it. She had been seated on the side of a lounge; 
and now, feeling blindly behind her, she moved the cush- 
ions aside, turned and dropped among them, burying 
her blazing face. Over her the scorching vertigo 
swept, subsided, rose, and swept again. Oh, the horror 
of it!—the shame, the agonised surprise. What was 
this dreadful thing that, for the second time, she had 
unwittingly done? And this time it was so much more 
terrible. How could such an accident have happened 
to her? How could she face her own soul in the dis- 
grace of it? 

Fear, loathing, frightened incredulity that this 
could really be herself, stiffened her body and clinched 
her hands under her parted lips. On them her hot 
breath fell irregularly. 

Rigid, motionless, she lay, breathing faster and more 
feverishly. Tears came after a long while, and with 
them relaxation and lassitude. She felt that the 
dreadful thing which had seized and held her was let- 
ting go its hold, was freeing her body and mind; and 
as it slowly released her and passed on its terrible 

109 


THE DANGER MARK 








silent way, she awoke and sat up with a frightened 
cry—to find herself lying on her own bed in utter 
darkness. 

A moment later her bedroom door opened without 
~ a sound and the light from the hall streamed over Kath- 
Ieen’s bare shoulders and braided hair. 

“ Geraldine? ” 

The girl scarcely recognised Kathleen’s altered 
voice. She lay listening, silent, motionless, staring at 
_ the white figure. 

* Dearest, I thought you called me. May I come 
in?” 

“T am not well.” 

But Kathleen entered and stood beside the bed, look- 
ing down at her in the dim light. 

** Dearest,” she began tremulously, “ Duane told me 
you had a headache and had gone to your room to lie 
down, so I didn’t disturb you 

“ Duane,” faltered the girl, “is he here? What did 
he say?” : 

“* He was in the library before dinner when I came 
in, and he warned me not to waken you. Do you know 
what time it is?” 

“ No.” 

“Tt is after midnight. . . . If you feel ill enough 
to lie here, you ought to be undressed. May I help 
you?” 

There was no answer. For a moment Kathleen 
stood looking down at the girl in silence; then a sud- | 
den shivering seized her; she strove to control it, but 
her knees seemed to give way under it and she dropped 
down beside the bed, throwing both arms ee Ger- 
aldine’s neck. 

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” she whimpered. “ It is too ter- 

110 





“Ac ve g, > ° 
_osudains postuose oy} ‘oueys oyj—j} Jo Jo110y oy} ‘YO,, 


‘ 





Lei Dare 
besa 


* 


4 





THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








rible! It ruined your father and your grandfather! 
Darling, I couldn’t bear to tell you this before, but now 
I’ve got to tell you! It is in your blood. Seagraves 
die of it! Do you understand? ” 

‘“* W-what? ” stammered the girl. 

“That all their lives they did what—what you have 
done to-day—that you have inherited their terrible in- 
clinations. Even as a little child you frightened me. 
Have you forgotten what you and I talked over and 
cried over after your first party? ” 

The girl said slowly: “ I don’t know how—it—hap- 
pened, Kathleen. Duane came in... . I tasted what 
he had in his glass. . . . I don’t know why I did it. 
I wish I were dead!” 

“There is only one thing to do—never to touch 
anything—anything 4 

**'Y-yes, I know that I must not. But how was I 
to know before? Will you tell me?” 

“You understand now, thank God!” 

**N-not exactly. . .. Other girls seem to do as 
they please without danger. ... It is amazing that 
such a horrible thing should happen to me——” 

“It is a shameful thing that it should happen to 
any woman. And the horror of it is that almost every 
hostess in town lets girls of your age run the risk. 
Darling, don’t you know that the only chance a woman 
has with the world is in her self-control? When that 
goes, her chances go, every one of them! Dear—we 
have latent in us much the same vices that men have. 
We have within us the same possibilities of temptations, 
the same capacity for excesses, the same capabilities for 
resistance. Because you are a girl, you are not immune 
from unworthy desires.” 

“1 know it. The—the dreadful thing about it is 

111 





THE DANGER MARK 








that I do desire such things. Perhaps I had better not 
even nibble sugar scented with cologne——” 

“Do you do that?” faltered Kathleen. 

“J did not know there was any danger in it,” sobbed 
the girl. ‘You have scared me terribly, Kathleen.” 

“Ts that true about the cologne? ” 

“cs Y-yes.” 

“ You don’t do it now, do you? ” 

66 Yes.” 

“You don’t do it every day, do you?” 

“ Yes, several times.” 

“How long ”—Kathleen’s lips almost refused to 
move—* how long have you done this? ” 

“For along time. I’ve been ashamed of it. It’s— 
it?s the alcohol in it that I like, isn’t it? I never 
thought of it in that way till now.” 

Kathleen, on her knees by the bedside, was crying 
silently. The girl slipped from her arms, turned partly 
over, and lying on her back, stared upward through the 
darkness. 

So this was the secret reason that, unsuspected, had 
long been stirring her to instinctive uneasiness, which 
had made her half ashamed, half impatient with this 
silly habit which already inconvenienced her. Yet even 
now she could not feel any real alarm; she could not 
understand that the fangs of a habit can poison when 
plucked out. Of course there was now only one thing 
to do—keep aloof from everything. That would be 
easy. The tingling warmth of the perfume was cer- 
tainly agreeable, but she must not risk even such a silly 
indulgence as that. Really, it was a very simple matter. 
She sat up, supporting her weight on one arm. 

“ Kathleen, darling,” she whispered, bending for- 
ward and drawing the elder woman up onto the bed, 

112 


THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








** you mustn’t be frightened about me. I’ve learned 
some things I didn’t know. Do you think Duane—” 
In the darkness the blood scorched her face, the hu- 
miliation almost crushed her. But she went on: “ Do 
you think Duane suspects that—that ? 

“JT don’t think Duane suspects anything,” said 
Kathleen, striving to steady her voice. ‘‘ You came in 
here as soon as you felt—ill; didn’t you? ” 

6eé I—-yes 9 

She could say no more. How she came to be on her 
bed in her own room she could not remember. It 
seemed to her as though she had fallen asleep on the 
lounge. Somehow, after Duane had gone, she must 
have waked and gone to her own room. But she could 
not recollect doing it. 

Now she realised that she was tired, wretched, fev- 
erish. She suffered Kathleen to undress her, comb her 
hair, bathe her, and dry the white, slender body and 
limbs in which the veins still burned and throbbed. 

When at length she lay between the cool sheets, si- 
lent, limp, heavy-lidded, Kathleen turned out the elec- 
tric brackets and lighted the candle. 

“ Dear,” she said, trying to speak cheerfully, “ do 
you know what your brother has done? ” 

** What? ” asked Geraldine drowsily. 

“He has bought Roya-Neh, if you please, and he 
invites you to draw a check for half of it and to move 
there next week. As for me, I was furious with him. 
What do you think? ” 

Her voice softened to a whisper; she bent over the 
girl, looking closely at the closed lids. Under them a 
faint bluish tint faded into the whiteness of the cheek. 

“ Darling, darling!” whispered Kathleen, bending 
closer over the sleeping girl, “I love you so—I love 

113 








THE DANGER MARK 








you so!” And even as she said it, between the sleep- 
er’s features and her own floated the vision of Scott’s 
youthfully earnest face; and she straightened suddenly 
to her full height and laid her hand on her breast in 
consternation. Under the fingers’ soft pressure her 
heart beat faster. Again, with new dismay, this in- 
credible sensation was stealing upon her, threatening 
to transform itself into something real, something defi- 
nite, something not to be stifled or ignored. 

She extinguished the candle; as she felt her way 
out of the darkness, arms extended, far away in the 
house she heard a door open and shut, and she bent 
over the balustrade to listen. 

“Ts that you, Scott? ” she called softly. 

* Yes; Duane and I did some billiards at the club.” 
He looked up at her, the same slight pucker between 
his brows, boyishly slender in his evening dress. 
“You’re not going to bed at once, are you, Kathleen, 
dear? ” 

“Yes, I am,” she said briefly, backing into her own 
room, but holding the door ajar so that she could look 
out at him. 

“Oh, come out and talk to a fellow,” he urged ; 
“Tm quite excited about this Roya-Neh business ars 

“You’re a perfect wretch, Scott. I don’t want to 
talk about your unholy extravagance.” 

The boy laughed and stood at ease looking at the 
pretty face partly disclosed between door and wall with 
darkness for a velvety background. 

“Just come out into the library while I smoke one 
cigarette,” he began in his wheedling way. “I’m dying 
to talk to you about the game-preserve——” 

“T can’t; I’m not attired for a téte-A-téte with any- 
thing except my pillow.” 

114 





THE YEAR OF DISCRETION 








Then put on one of those fetching affairs you 


9 





wear sometimes 

“Oh, Scott, you are a nuisance!” 

When, a few moments later, she came into the li- 
brary in a delicate shimmering thing and little slippers 
of the same elusive tint, Scott jumped up and dragged 
a big chair forward. 

“You certainly are stunning, Kathleen,” he said 
frankly ; * you look twenty with all the charm of thirty. 
Sit here; I’ve a map of the Roya-Neh forest to show 
you.” 

He drew up a chair for himself, lifted a big map 
from the table, and, unrolling it, laid it across her 
knees. Then he began to talk enthusiastically about 
lake and stream and mountain, and about wild boar and 
deer and keepers and lodges; and she bent her pretty 
head over the map, following his moving pencil with her 
eyes, sometimes asking a question, sometimes tracing 
a road with her own delicate finger. 

Once or twice it happened that their hands touched 
en passant; and at the light contact, she was vaguely 
aware that somewhere, deep within her, the same faint 
dismay awoke; that in her, buried in depths unsuspected, 
something incredible existed, stirred, threatened. 

“Scott, dear,” she said quietly, “I am glad you 
are happy over Roya-Neh forest, but it was too ex- 
pensive, and it troubles me; so I’m going to sleep to 
dream over it.” 

“You sweet little goose!” laughed the boy im- 
pulsively, passing his arm around her. He had done 
it so often to this nurse and mother. 

They both rose abruptly ; the map dropped; his arm 
fell away from her warm, yielding body. 

He gazed at her flushed face rather stupidly, not 

115 


THE DANGER MARK 








realising yet that the mother and nurse and elder sis- 
ter had vanished like a tinted bubble in that strange 
instant—that Kathleen was gone—that, in her calm, 
sweet, familiar guise stood a woman—a stranger, ex- 
quisite, youthful, with troubled violet eyes and vivid 
lips, looking at him as though for the first time she 
had met his gaze across the world. 

She recovered her composure instantly. 

“T’m sorry, Scott, but I’m too sleepy to talk any 
more. Besides, Geraldine isn’t very well, and I’m going 
to doze with one eye open. Good-night, dear.” 

“ Good-night,” said the boy vacantly, not offering 
the dutiful embrace to which he and she had so long and 
so lightly been accustomed. 


CHAPTER V 
ROYA-NEH 


Late on a fragrant mid-June afternoon young 
Seagrave stood on the Long Terrace to welcome a 
guest whose advent completed a small house-party of 
twelve at Roya-Neh. 

* Hello, Duane!” cried the youthful landowner in 
all the pride of new possession, as Mallett emerged from 
the motor; “ frightfully glad to see you, old fellow! 
How is it in town? Did you bring your own rods? 
There are plenty here. What do you think of my 
view? Isn’t that rather fine? ”—looking down through 
the trees at the lake below. ‘“‘ There are bass in it. 
Those things standing around under the oaks are only 
silly English fallow deer. Sorry I got ’em. What do 
you think of my house? It’s merely a modern affair 
worked up to look old and colonial. . . . Yes, it cer- 
tainly does resemble the real thing, but it isn’t. No 
Seagraves fit and bled here. Those are Geraldine’s 
quarters up there behind the leaded windows. ‘Those 
are Kathleen’s where the dinky woodbine twineth. Mine 
face the east, and yours are next. Come on out into 
the par i 

“Not much!” returned young Mallett. “I want 
a bath!” 

“The park,” interrupted Scott excitedly, “is the 
largest fenced game-preserve in America! It’s only ten 
minutes to the Sachem’s Gate, if we walk fast.” 

117 





THE DANGER MARK 








“J want a bath and fresh linen.” 

“Don’t you care to see the trout? Don’t you 
want to try to catch a glimpse of a wild boar? I 
should think you’d be crazy to see-——” 

“T’m crazy about almost any old thing when I’m 
well scrubbed; otherwise, I’m merely crazy. That was 
a wild trip up. I’m all over cinders.” 

A woman came quietly out onto the terrace, and 
Duane instantly divined it, though his back was toward 
her and her skirts made no sound. 

“Oh, is that you, Kathleen?” he cried, pivoting. 
“* How d’ye do?” with a vigorous handshake. ‘ Every 
time I see you you’re three ae as pretty as I thought 
you were when I last saw you.” 

““ Neat but involved,” said Kathleen Severn. “ You 
have a streak of cinder across that otherwise fasci- 
nating nose.” 

“TI don’t doubt it! I’m going. Where’s Ger- 
aldine? ” 

“ Having her hair done in your honour; return the 
compliment by washing your face. There’s a maid 
inside to show you.” 

** Show me how to wash my face! ” exclaimed Duane, 
delighted. ‘“ This is luxury 

“IT want him to see the Gray Water before it’s too 
late, with the sunlight on the trees and the big trout 
jumping,” protested Scott. 

“Pll do my own jumping if you’ll furnish the tub,” 
observed Duane. ‘“ Where’s that agreeable maid who 
washes your guests’ faces? ” 

Kathleen nodded an amused dismissal to them. Arm 
in arm they entered the house, which was built out of 
squared blocks of field stone. Scott motioned the ser- 
vants aside and did the piloting himself up a broad 

118 





ROYA-NEH 








stone stairs, east along a wide sunny corridor full of 
nooks and angles and antique sofas and potted flowers. 

“ Not that way,” he said; “ Dysart is in there tak- 
ing anap. Turn to the left.” 

“Dysart?” repeated Duane. “I didn’t know there 
was to be anybody else here.” 

“T asked Jack Dysart because he’s a good rod. 
Kathleen raised the deuce about it when I told her, but - 
it was too late. Anyway, I didn’t know she had no use 
for him. He’s certainly clever at dry-fly casting. He 
uses pneumatic bodies, not cork or paraffine.” 

“Ts his wife here? ” asked Duane carelessly. 

“Yes. Geraldine asked her as soon as she heard I’d 
written to Jack. But when I told her the next day 
that I expected you, too, she got mad all over, and we 
had a lively talk-fest. What was there wrong in my 
having you and the Dysarts here at the same time? 
Don’t you get on?” 

*“‘ Charmingly,” replied Duane airily. . . . “ It will 
be very interesting, I think. Is there anybody else 
here? ” 

“Delancy Grandcourt. Isn’t he the dead one? 
But Geraldine wanted him. And there’s that stick of 
a Quest girl, and Bunbury Gray. Naida came over 
this afternoon from the Tappans’ at Iron Hill—thank 
goodness " 

“I didn’t know my sister was to be here.” 

“Yes; and you make twelve, counting Geraldine 
and me and the Pink ’uns.” 

“You didn’t tell me it was to be a round-up,” re- 
peated Duane, absently surveying his chintz-hung quar- 
ters. “ This is a pretty place you’ve given me. Where 
do you get all your electric lights? Where do you 
get fancy plumbing in this wilderness? ” 

9 119 





THE DANGER MARK 








“ Our own plant,” explained the boy proudly. “ Isn’t 
that corking water? Look at it—heavenly cold and 
clear, or hot as hell, whichever way you’re inclined—” 
turning on a silver spigot chiselled like a cherub. 
“That water comes from Cloudy Lake, up there on 
that dome-shaped mountain. Here, stand here beside 
me, Duane, and you can see it from your window. 
That’s the Gilded Dome—that big peak. It’s in our 
park. There are a few elk on it, not many, because 
they’d starve out the deer. As it is, we have to cut 
browse in winter. For Heaven’s sake, hurry, man! 
Get into your bath and out again, or we'll miss 
the trout jumping along Gray Water and Hurryon 
Brook.” 

“Let ’em jump!” retorted Duane, forcibly eject- 
ing his host from the room and locking the door. Then, 
lighting a cigarette, he strolled into the bath room and 
started the water running into the porcelain tub. 

He was in excellent spirits, quite undisturbed by the 
unexpected proximity of Rosalie Dysart or the possi- 
ble renewal of their hitherto slightly hazardous friend- 
ship. He laid his cigarette aside for the express pur- 
pose of whistling while undressing. 

Half an hour later, bathed, shaved, and sartorially 
freshened, he selected a blue corn-flower from the rural 
bouquet on his dresser, drew it through his buttonhole, 
gave a last alluring twist to his tie, surveyed himself 
in the mirror, whistled a few bars, was perfectly satis- 
fied with himself, then, unlocking the door, strolled out 
into the corridor. Having no memory for direction, 
he took the wrong turn. 

A distractingly pretty maid laid aside her sewing 
and rose from her chair to set him right; he bestowed 
upon her his most courtly thanks. She was unusually 

120 


ROYA-NEH 








pretty, so he thanked her again, and she dimpled, 
one hand fingering her apron’s edge. 

“My child,” said he gravely, “are you by any 
fortunate chance as good as you are ornamental? ” 

She replied that she thought she was. 

“In that case,” he said, * this is one of those rare 
occasions in a thankless world where goodness is amply 
and instantly rewarded.” 

She made a perfunctory resistance, but looked 
after him, smiling, as he sauntered off down the hall- 
way, rearranging the blue corn-flower in his button- 
hole. At the turn by the window, where potted posies 
stood, he encountered Rosalie Dysart in canoe costume 
—sleeves rolled up, hair loosened, becomingly tanned, 
and entirely captivating in her thoughtfully arranged 
disarray. 

“Why, Duane!” she exclaimed, offering both her 
hands with that impulsively unstudied gesture she care- 
fully cultivated for such occasions. 

He took them; he always took what women offered. 

“This is very jolly,” he said, retaining the hands 
and examining her with unfeigned admiration. “ Tell 
me, Mrs. Dysart, are you by any fortunate chance as 
good as you are ornamental?” 

“T heard you ask that of the maid around the 
corner,” said Rosalie coolly. ‘ Don’t let the bucolic 
go to your head, Mr. Mallett.” And she disengaged 
her hands, crossed them behind her, and smiled back 
at him. It was his punishment. Her hands were very 
pretty hands, and well worth holding. 

“That maid,” he said gravely, “has excellent 
manners. I merely complimented her upon them. . 
What else did you—ah—hear, Mrs. Dysart? ” 

“ What one might expect to hear wherever you are 

121 


THE DANGER MARK 








concerned. I don’t mind. The things you do rather 
gracefully seem only offensive when other men do them. 
. . . Have you just arrived?” 

** An hour ago. Did you know I was coming?” . 

*‘ Geraldine mentioned it to everybody, but I don’t 
think anybody swooned at the news. . . . My husband 
is here.” 

She still confronted him, hands behind her, with 
an audacity which challenged—her whole being was 
always a delicate and perpetual challenge. There are 
such women. Over her golden-brown head the late 
summer sunlight fell, outlining her full, supple figure 
and bared arms with a rose light. 

** Well? ” she asked. 

* If only you were as good as you are ornamental,” 
he said, looking at her impudently. ‘“ But I’m afraid 
you’re not.” 

* What would happen to me if I were? ” 

“Why,” he said with innocent enthusiasm, “ you 
would have your reward, too, Mrs. Dysart.” 

“The sort of reward which I heard you bestow a 
few moments ago upon that maid? I’m no longer the 
latter, so I suppose I’m not entitled to it, am I? ” 

The smile still edged her pretty mouth; there was 
an instant when matters looked dubious for her; but 
a door opened somewhere, and, still smiling, she slipped 
by him and vanished into a neighbouring corridor. 

Howker, the old butler, met him at the foot of the 
stairs. 

“Tea is served on the Long Terrace, sir. Mr. 
Seagrave wishes to know whether you would care to see 
the trout jumping on the Gray Water this evening? 
If so, you are please not to stop for tea, but go directly 
to the Sachem’s Gate. Redmond will guide you, sir.” 

122 








a : : : 
This is one of those rare occasions . . . where goodness 


is amply . . . rewarded.’” 





ROYA-NEH 








* All right, Howker,” said Duane absently; and 
strolled on along the hall, thinking of Mrs. Dysart. 

The front doors swung wide, opening on the Long 
Terrace, which looked out across a valley a hundred 
feet below, where a small lake glimmered as still as a 
mirror against a background of golden willows and low 
green mountains. 

There were a number of young people pretending 
to take tea on the terrace; and some took it, and others 
took other things. He knew them all, and went for- 
ward to greet them. Geraldine Seagrave, a new and 
bewitching coat of tan tinting cheek and neck, held 
out her hand with all the engaging frankness of earlier 
days. Her clasp was firm, cool, and nervously cordial 
—the old confident affection of childhood once more. 

“IT am so glad you came, Duane. I’ve really missed 
you.” And sweeping the little circle with an eager 
glance; ‘‘ You know everybody, I think. The Dysarts 
have not yet appeared, and Scott is down at the Gate 
Lodge. Come and sit by me, Duane.” 

Two or three girls extended their hands to him— 
Sylvia Quest, shy and quiet; Muriel Wye, white 
skinned, black-haired, red-lipped, red-cheeked, with 
eyes like melted sapphires and the expression of a reck- 
less saint; and his blond sister, Naida, who had arrived 
that afternoon from the Tappans’ at Iron Hill, across 
the mountain. 

Delancy Grandcourt, uncouth and highly coloured, 
stood up to shake hands; Bunbury Gray, a wiry, 
bronzed little polo-playing squadron man, hailed Duane 
with enthusiasm. 

“ Awfully glad to see you, Bunny,” said Duane, 
who liked him immensely—“ oh, how are you?” offer- 
ing his hand to Reginald Wye, a hard-riding, hard- 

123 


THE DANGER MARK 








drinking, straight-shooting young man, who knew 
nothing on earth except what concerned sport and 
the drama. He and his sister of the sapphire eyes 
and brilliant cheeks were popularly known as the 
Pink ’uns. 

Jack Dysart arrived presently, graceful, supple, 
always smilingly, elaborate of manner, apparently un- 
conscious that he was not cordially admired by the men 
who returned his greeting. Later, Rosalie, came, en- 
chantingly demure in her Greuze-like beauty. Chardin 
might have made her; possibly Fragonard.. She did 
not resemble the Creator’s technique. Dresden tea- 
cups tinkled, ice clattered in tall glasses, the two foun- 
tains splashed away bravely, prettily modulated voices 
made agreeable harmony on the terrace, blending with 
the murmur of leaves overhead as the wind stirred them 
to gossip. Over all spread a calm evening sky. 

“Tea, dear? ” asked Geraldine, glancing up at Mrs. 
Dysart. Rosalie shook her head with a smile. 

Lang, the second man, was flitting about, busy with 
a decanter of Scotch. A moment later Rosalie signi- 
fied her preference for it with a slight nod. Geraldine, 
who sat watching indifferently the filling of Mrs. 
Dysart’s glass, suddenly leaned back and turned her 
head sharply, as though the aroma from glass and 
decanter were distasteful to her. In a few minutes she 
rose, walked over to the parapet, and stood leaning 
against the coping, apparently absorbed in the land- 
scape. . 

The sun hung low over the flat little tree-clad 
mountains, which the lake, now inlaid with pink and 
gold, reflected. A few fallow deer moved quietly down 
there, ruddy spots against the turf. 

Duane, carrying his glass with him, rose and 

124 


ROYA-NEH 








stepped across the strip of grass to her side, and, 
glancing askance at her, was on the point of speaking 
when he discovered that her eyes were shut and her 
face colourless and rigid. 

** What is it? ” he asked surprised. “‘ Are you feel- 
ing faint, Geraldine? ” 

She opened her eyes, velvet dark and troubled, but 
did not turn around. 

* It’s nothing,” she answered calmly. “ I was think- 
ing of several things.” 

* You look so white——” 

“T am perfectly well. Bend over the parapet with 
me, Duane. Look at those rocks down there. What 
a tumble! What a death!” 

He placed his glass between them on the coping, 
and leaned over. She did not notice the glass for a 
moment. Suddenly she wheeled, as though he had 
spoken, and her eyes fell on the glass. 

“What is the matter? ’”? he demanded, as she turned 
on her heel and moved away. 

“I’m a trifle nervous, I believe. If you want to 
see the big trout breaking on Hurryon, you’d better 
come with me.” 

She was walking swiftly down the drive to the 
south of the house. He overtook her and fell into slower 
step beside her. 

The sun had almost disappeared behind the moun- 
tains; bluish haze veiled the valley; a horizon of daz- 
zling yellow flecked with violet faded upward to palest 
turquoise. High overhead a feathered cloud hung, 
tinged with rose. 

The south drive was bordered deep in syringas, all 
over snowy bloom; and as they passed they inhaled the 
full fragrance of the flowers with every breath. 

125 


THE DANGER MARK 








“It’s like heaven,” said Duane; “and you are not 
incongruous in the landscape, either.” 

She looked around at him; the smile that curved her 
mouth had the faintest suspicion of tenderness about it. 

She said slowly: 

“Do you realise that I am genuinely glad to see 
you? I’ve been horrid to you. I don’t yet really be- 
lieve in you, Duane. I detest some of the things you 
are and say and do; but, after all, I’ve missed you. 
Incredible as it sounds, I’ve been a little lonely without 
you.” 

He said gaily: “ When a woman becomes accus- 
tomed to chasing the family cat out of the parlour 
with the broom, she misses the sport when the cat 
migrates permanently.” 

“Have you migrated—permanently? O Duane! 
I thought you did care for me—in your own careless 
fashion Af 

“IT do. But I’m not hopelessly enamoured of your 
broom-stick ! ” 

Her laugh was a little less spontaneous, as she an- 
swered : 

vee! mor I have been rather free with my broom. 
I’m sorry.” 





“You have made some sweeping charges on that 
cat!” he said, laughing. 

“I know I have. That was two months ago. I 
don’t think I am the morally self-satisfied prig I was 
two months ago. . . . I’d be easier on anything now, 
even a cat. But don’t think I mean more than I do 
mean, Duane,” she added hastily. ‘I’ve missed you a 
little. I want you to be nice to me. ... After all, 
you’re the oldest friend I have except Kathleen.” 

“T’ll be as nice as you'll let me,” he said. They 

126 


ROYA-NEH 








turned from the driveway and entered a broad wood 
road. ‘ As nice as you’ll let me,” he repeated. 

“TI won’t let you be sentimental, if that’s what 
you mean,” she observed. 

rT) Why? 99 

“* Because you are you.” 

“In a derogatory sense? ” 

“Somewhat. I might be like you if I were a man, 
and had your easy, airy, inconsequential way with 
women. But I won’t let you have it with me, my casual 
friend. Don’t hope for it.” 

“What have I ever done——” 

“ Exactly what you’re doing now to Rosalie—what 
you did to a dozen women this winter—what you did 
to me”—she turned and looked at him—* the first 
time I ever set eyes on you since we were children to- 
gether. I know you are not to be taken seriously ; 
almost everybody knows that! And all the same, Du- 
ane, I’ve thought about you a lot in these two months 
up here, and—I’m happy that you’ve come at last... . . 
You won’t mistake me and try to be sentimental with 
me, will you? ” 

She laid her slim, sun-tanned hand on his arm; 
they walked on together through the woodland where 
green bramble sprays glimmered through clustering 
tree trunks and the fading light turned foliage and 
undergrowth to that vivid emerald which heralds dusk. 

.““ Duane,” she said, “I’m dreadfully restless and 
I cannot account for it. . . . Perhaps motherless girls 
are never quite normal; I don’t know. But, lately, the 
world has seemed very big and threatening around me. 
. . » Scott is nice to me, usually; Kathleen adorable. 
. . . I—I don’t know what I want, what it is I miss.” 

Her hand still rested lightly on his arm as they 

10 127 


THE DANGER MARK 








walked forward. She was speaking at intervals almost 
as though talking in an undertone to herself: 

“T’m in—perplexity. I’ve been troubled. Per- 
haps that is what makes me tolerant of you; perhaps 
that’s why I’m glad to see you. . . . Trouble is a new 
thing to me. I thought I had troubles—perhaps I had 
as a child. But this is deeper, different, disquiet- 
ing.” 

* Are you in love?” he asked. 

66 No.” 

** Really? ” 

* Really.” 

“Then what is 

“T can’t tell you. Anyway, it won’t last. It can’t, 

sae ee? 

She looked around at him, and they both laughed 
a little at her inconsequence. 

“T feel better for pretending to tell you, anyway,” 
she said, as they halted before high iron gates hung 
between two granite posts from which the woven wire 
fence of the game park, ten fect high, stretched away 
into the darkening woods on either hand. 

“This is the'Sachem’s Gate,” she said; “here is 
the key; unlock it, please.” 

- Inside they crossed a stream dashing between 
tanks set with fern and tall silver birches. 

“Hurryon Brook,” she said. “ Isn’t it a beauty? 
It pours into the Gray Water a little farther ahead. 
We must hasten, or it will be too dark to see the trout.” 

Twice again they crossed the rushing brook on log 
bridges. Then through the trees stretching out be- 
fore them they caught sight of the Gray Water, crink- 
ling like a flattened sheet of hammered silver. 

Everywhere the surface was starred and ringed and 

128 





ROYA-NEH 








spattered by the jumping fish; and now they could hear 
them far out, splash! slap! clip-clap! splash !—hun- 
dreds and hundreds jumping incessantly, so that the 
surface of the water was constantly broken over the 
entire expanse. 

Now and then some great trout, dark against the 
glimmer, leaped full length into the air; everywhere 
fish broke, swirled, or rolled over, showing “ colour.” 

“There is Scott,” she whispered, attuning her 
voice to the forest quiet— out there in that canoe. 
No, he hasn’t taken his rod; he seldom does; he’s per- 
fectly crazy over things of this sort. All day and half 
the night he’s out prowling about the woods, not fish- 
ing, not shooting, just mousing around and listening 
and looking. And for all his dreadfully expensive col- 
lection of arms and rods, he uses them very little. See 
him out there drifting about with the fish breaking 
all around—some within a foot of his canoe! He'll 
never come in to dress for dinner unless we call him.” 

And she framed her mouth with both hands and 
sent a long, clear call floating out across the Gray 
Water. 

“ All right; Ill come!” shouted her brother. 
“Wait a moment!” 

They waited many moments. Dusk, lurking in the 
forest, peered out, casting a gray net over shore and 
water. A star quivered, another, then ten, and scores 
and myriads. 

They had found a seat on a fallen log; neither 
seemed to have very much to say. For a while the 
steady splashing of the fish sounded like the uninter- 
rupted music of a distant woodland waterfall. Sud- 
denly it ceased as if by magic. Not another trout rose; 
the quiet was absolute. 

129 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Ts not this stillness delicious?” she breathed. 

“Tt is sweeter when you break it.” 

** Please don’t say such things. . . . Can’t you un- 
derstand how much I want you to be sincere to me? 
Lately, I don’t know why, I’ve seemed to feel so iso- 
lated. When you talk that way I feel more so. I— 
just want—a friend.” 

There was a silence; then he said lightly: 

“ve felt that way myself. The more friends I 
make the more solitary I seem to be. Some people are 
fashioned for a self-imprisonment from which they 
can’t break out, and through which no one can 
penetrate. But I never thought of you as one of 
those.” 

“TI seem to be at times—not exactly isolated, but 
unable to get close to—to Kathleen, for example. Do 
you know, Duane, it might be very good for me to have 
you to talk to.” | 

“People usually like to talk to me. I’ve noticed it. 
But the curious part of it is that they have nothing 
to give me in exchange for my attention.” 

“What do you mean? ” 

He laughed. “Oh, nothing. I amuse people; I 
know it. You—and everybody—say I am all clever- 
ness and froth—not to be taken seriously. But did it 
ever occur to you that what you see in me you evoke. 
Shallowness provokes -shallowness, levity, lightness, in- 
consequence—all are answered by their own echo. . . . 
And you and the others think it is I who answer.” 

He laughed, not looking at her: 

“And it happens that you—and the others—are 
mistaken. If I appear to be what you say I am, it 
is merely a form of self-defence. Do you think I could 
_endure the empty nonsense of a New York winter if I 

130 


ROYA-NEH 








did not present to it a surface like a sounding-board 
and let Folly converse with its own echo—while, be-’ 
hind it, underneath it, Duane Mallett goes about his 
own business.” 

Astonished, not clearly understanding, she listened 
in absolute silence. Never in all her life had she heard 
him speak in such a manner. She could not make 
out whether bitterness lay under his light and easy 
speech, whether a maliciously perverse humour lurked 
there, whether it was some new mockery. 

He said carelessly: “I give what I receive. And 
I have never received any very serious attention from 
anybody. I’m only Duane Mallett, identified with the 
wealthy section of society you inhabit, the son of a 
wealthy man, who went abroad and dabbled in colour 
and who paints pictures of pretty women. Everybody 
and the newspapers know me. What I see of women 
is a polished coquetry that mirrors my fixed smirk; 
what I see of men is less interesting.” 

He looked out through the dusk at the darkening 
water: 

“You say you are beginning to feel isolated. Can 
anybody with any rudiment of intellect feel otherwise 
in the social environment you and I inhabit—where 
distinction and inherited position count for absolutely 
nothing unless propped up by wealth—where any ass 
is tolerated whose fortune and lineage pass inspection— 
where there is no place for intelligence and talent, even 
when combined with breeding and lineage, unless you 
are properly ballasted with money enough to forget 
that you have any?” 

He laughed. 

“So you feel isolated? I do, too, And I’m going 
to get out. I’m tired of decorating a set where the 

131 


THE DANGER MARK 








shuttle-cock of conversation is worn thin, frayed, 
“ragged! Where the battledore is fashionable scandal 
and the players half dead with ennui and their neigh- 
bour’s wives fe 

* Duane 

* Oh, Lord, you’re a world-wise graduate at twenty- 
two! Truth won’t shock you, more’s the pity... . 
As for the game—lI’m done with it; I can’t stand it. 
The amusement I extract doesn’t pay. Good God! 
and you wonder why I kiss a few of you for distrac- 
tion’s sake, press a finger-tip or two, brush a waist 
with my sleeve!” 

He laughed unpleasantly, and bent forward in 
the darkness, clasped hands hanging between his 
knees. 

** Duane,” she said in astonishment, “ what do you 
mean? Are you trying to quarrel with me, just when, 
for the first time, something in this new forest country 
seemed to be drawing us together, making us the com- 
rades we once were? ” 

* We’re too old to be comrades. That’s book rub- 
bish. Men and women have nothing in common, intel- 
lectually, unless they’re in love. For company, for 
straight conversation, for business, for sport, a man 
would rather be with men. And either you and I are 
like everybody else or we’re going to really care for 
each other. Not for your pretty face and figure, or 
for my grin, my six feet, and thin shanks; I can care 
for face and figure in any woman. What’s the use of 
marrying for what you'll scarcely notice in a month? 
- + + If you are you, Geraldine, under all your at- 
tractive surface there’s something else which you have 
never given me.” 

“ Wh—what? ” she asked faintly. 

132 





1» 


ROYA-NEH 








“Intelligent interest in me.” 

* Do you mean,” she said slowly, “ that you think 
I underestimate you? ” 

“Not as I am. I don’t amount to much; but I 
might if you cared.” 

““Cared for you?” 

“No, confound it! Cared for what I could be.’ 

**J—I don’t think I understand. What could you 
be? ” 

“A man, for one thing. I’m a thing that dances. 
A fashionable portrait painter for another. The com- 
bination is horrible.” 

“You are a successful painter.” 

“Am I? Geraldine, in all the small talk you and I 
have indulged in since my return from abroad, have 
you ever asked me one sincere, intelligent, affectionate 
question about my work?” 

** I—yes—but I don’t know anything about of 

He laughed, and it hurt her. 

“Don’t you understand,” she said, “ that ordinary 
people are very shy about talking art to a profes- 
sional if 

*¥ don’t want you to talk art. Any little thing 
with blue eyes and blond curls can do it. I wanted you 
to see what I do, say what you think, like it or 
damn it—only do something about it! You’ve never 
been to my studio except to stand with the per- 
fumed crowd and talk commonplaces in front of a 
picture.” 

“T can’t go alone.” 

“ Can’t you?” he asked, looking closely at her in 
the dusk, so close that she could see every mocking 
feature. ; 

“ Yes,” she said in a low, surprised voice, “I could 


133 


i 
7 








THE DANGER MARK 








go alone—anywhere—with you. ...I didn’t realise 
it before, Duane.” 
“You never tried. You once mistook an impulse of 


genuine passion for the sort of thing I’ve done since. 


You made a terrific fuss about being kissed when I saw, 
as soon as I saw you, that I wanted to win you, if you’d 


let me. Since then you’ve chosen the key-note of our » 


relations, not I, and you don’t like my interpretation 
of my part.” 

For a while she sat silent, preoccupied with this 
totally new revelation of a man about whom she sup- 
posed she had long ago made up her mind. 

“T’m glad we’ve had this talk,” she said at last. 

“Tam, too. I haven’t asked you to fall in love with 
me; I haven’t asked for your confidence. I’ve asked 
you to take an intelligent, affectionate interest in what 
I might become, and perhaps you and I won’t be so 
lonely if you do.” 

He struck a match in the darkness and lighted a 
cigarette. Close inshore Scott Seagrave’s electric torch 
flashed. They heard the velvety scraping of the canoe, 
the rattle and thump as he flung it, bottom upward, on 
the sandy point. 

“ Hello, you people! Where are you? ”—sweep- 
ing the wood’s edge with his flash-light—“ oh, there 
you are. Isn’t this glorious? Did you ever see such 
a sight as those big fellows jumping? ” 

“ Meanwhile,” said his sister, rising, “ our guests 
are doubtless yelling with hunger. What time is it, 
Duane? Half-past eight? Please hurry, Scott; we’ve 
got to get back and dress in five minutes!” 

“T can do it easily,” announced her brother, going 
ahead to light the path. And all the way home he dis- 
cussed aloud upon the stripping, hatching, breeding, 

134 


/ 


a ROYA-NEH 








care, and diseases of trout, never looking back, and 
quite confident that they were listening attentively to 
his woodland lecture. 
™" * Duane,” she said, lowering her voice, “do you 
think all our misunderstandings are ended? ” 
*“ Certainly,” he replied gaily. “ Don’t you?” 

Q ** But how am I going to make everybody think you 
are not frivolous? ”, 

“TIT am frivolous. There’s lots of froth to me—on 
top. You know that sort of foam you see on grass- 
stems in the fields. Hidden away inside is a very clever 
and busy little creature. He uses the froth to protect 
himself.” 

** Are you going to froth?” 

* Yes—until a 

“Until what? ” 

“s You bed 

** Go on.” 

** Shall I say it?” 

6é Yes.” 

“Well, then, unless you and I find each other intel- 
lectually satisfactory.” 

“You said only a man—in love with a woman— 
could find her interesting in that way.” 

Yes. What of it?” 

* Nothing. ... Only I’m afraid you'll have to 
froth, then,” she said, laughing. “I haven’t any in- 
tention of falling in love with you, Duane, and you'll 
find me stupid if I don’t. Do you vented that what you 
intimate is very horrid? ” 

“cs Why: p29 

“Yes, it is. Besides, it’s a sort of threat * 

“A threat?” 

“Certainly. You threaten to—you know per- 

135 


% 











THE DANGER MARK 








fectly well what you threaten to do unless I immedi- 
ately consider the possibility of our—caring for each 
other—sentirnentally. ai 

“ But what do you care if you don’t care? ” 

“ J—don’t. All the same it’s horrid and—and un- 
fair. Suppose I was frothy and behaved . 

** Misbehaved? ” 

“Yes. Just because you wouldn’t agree to take a 
sentimental interest in me? ” 

“TI weuld agree! I’ll agree now!” 

“ Suppose you wouldn’t? ” 

“T can’t imagine——” 

“Oh, Duane, be honest!’ And I’ll tell you flatly— 
if you do misbehave. Just because I don’t particularly 
desire to rush into your arms . 

“ But I haven’t threatened to.” 

Unconsciously she laid her hand on his arm again, 
slipping it a little way under. 

“You’re just as you were years ago—just the 
dearest of playmates. We’re not too old to play, are 
we?” 

“T can’t with you; it’s too dangerous.” 

“What nonsense! Yes, you can. You like me for 
my intelligence in spite of what you say about men 
and women id 

“I wouldn’t care for your intelligence if I were 
not in re 

“ Duane, stop, please! ” 

“In danger,” he continued blandly, “ of proving 
my proposition.” 


“You are insufferable. I am as intelligent as 
99 














you 

“TI know it, but it wouldn’t attract me unless <d 

“Tt ought to,” she said hastily. ‘ And, Duane, 
136 





ROYA-NEH 








I’m going to make you take me into account. Dm 
going t exercise a man’s privilege with you by—by 
saying frankly—several things iy 

* What things? ” 

The amused mockery in his voice gave her courage. 

“For one thing, I’m going to tell you that people 
—gossip—that there are—are——” 

* Rumours? ” He asked in pretended anxiety. 

“Yes... . About you and—of course they are 
silly and contemptible; but what’s the use of being at- 
tentive enough to a woman—careless enough to give 
colour to them? ” 

After an interval he said: “ Perhaps you’ll tell me 
who beside myself these rumours concern? ” 

“You know, don’t you?” Nee: 

“There might be several,” he said coolly. ‘ Who 
is it?” 

For a moment a tiny flash of anger made her cheeks 
hot. Then she said: 

* You know perfectly well it’s Rosalie. I think we 
have become good enough comrades for me to use a 
man’s privilege——” 

“Men wouldn’t permit themselves that sort of 
privilege,” he said, laughing. 

** Aren’t men frank with their friends?” she de- 
manded hotly. 

** About as frank as women.” 

“TI thought—” She hesitated, tingling with the 
old desire to hurt him, flick him in the raw, make him 
wince in his exasperating complacency. Then, “ I’ve 
said it anyhow. I’m trying to show an interest in you 
' —as you asked me to do——” | 

He turned in the darkness, caught her hand: 
* You dear little thing,” he whispered, laughing. 
137 





/ 


f 


CHAPTER VI 
ADRIFT 


Durie the week the guests at Roya-Neh were left 
very much to their own devices. Nobody was asked to 
do anything; there were several good enough horses 
at their disposal, two motor cars, a power-boat, canoes, 
rods, and tennis courts and golf links. The chances are 
they wanted sea-bathing. Inland guests usually do. 

Scott Seagrave, however, concerned himself little 
about his guests. All day long he moused about his 
new estate, field-glasses dangling, cap on the back of 
his head, pockets bulging with untidy odds and ends 
until the increasing carelessness of his attire and man- 
ners tnoved Kathleen Severn to protest. 

“I don’t know what is the matter with you, Scott,” 
she said. ‘ You were always such a fastidious boy— 
even dandified. Doesn’t anybody ever cut your hair? 
Doesn’t somebody keep your clothes in order? ” 

“ Yes, but I tear ’em again,” he replied, carefully 
examining a small dark-red newt which he held in the 
palm of one hand. “I say, Kathleen, look at this little 
creature. I was messing about under the ledges along 
Hurryon Brook, and found this amphibious gentleman 
occupying the ground-floor apartment of a flat stone.” 

Kathleen craned her dainty neck over the shoulder 
of his ragged shooting coat. 

“ He’s red enough to be poisonous, isn’t he? Oh, 
do be careful! ” 

138 


ADRIFT 








* It’s only a young newt. Take him in your hand; 
he’s cool and clammy and rather agreeable.” 

“Scott, I won’t touch him!” 

“Yes, you will!” He caught her by the arm; 


_ “Vm going to teach you not to be afraid of things out- 


doors. This lizard-like thing is perfectly harmless. 
Hold out your hand!” 

“Oh, Scott, don’t make me——” 

* Yes, I will. I thought you and I were going to 
be in thorough accord and sympathy and everything 
else.” 

* Yes, but you mustn’t bully me.” 

*T’m not. I merely want you to get over your ab- 
surd fear of live things, so that you and I can really 
enjoy ourselves. You said you would, Kathleen.” 

** Can’t we be in perfect sympathy and roam about 
and—and everything, unless I touch such things? ” 

He said reproachfully, balancing the little creature 
on his palm: “ The fun is in being perfectly confident 
and fearless. You have no idea how I like allPthese 
things. You said i were going to like ’ ts too.” 

** T do—rather.” 

** Then take this one and pet it.” 

She glanced at the boy beside her, realising how 
completely their former relations were changing. 

Long ago she had given all her heart to the Sea- 
grave children—all the unspent passion in her had be- 
come an unswerving devotion to them. And now, a 
woman still young, the devotion remained, but time was 
modifying it in a manner sometimes disquieting. She 
tried not to remember that now, in Scott, she had a 
man to deal with, and tried in vain; and dealt with him 
weakly, and he was beginning to do with her as he 
pleased. 

1389 


THE DANGER MARK 








’ You do like to bully me, don’t you? ” she said. 
“I only want you to like to do what I like to do.” 
She stood silent a moment, then, with a shudder, 

held out her hand, fingers rigid and wide apart. 

“Oh!” she protested, as he placed the small dark- 
red amphibian on the palm, where it crinkled up and 
lowered its head. 

“'That’s the idea!” he said, delighted. ‘“ Here, I'll 
take it now. Some day you’ll be able to handle snakes 
if you’ll only have patience.” 

* But I don’t want to.” She stood holding out the 
contaminated hand for a moment, then dropped on her 
knees and scrubbed it vigorously in the brook. 

“You see,” said Scott, squatting cheerfully beside 
her, “ you and I don’t yet begin to realise the pleasure 
that there is in these woods and streams—hidden and 


waiting for us to discover it. I wouldn’t bother with — 


any other woman, but you’ve always liked what I like, 
and its half the fun in having you see these things. 
Lookshere, Kathleen, I’m keeping a book of field notes.” 
He extracted from his stuffed pockets a small leather- 
covered book, fished out a stylograph, and wrote the 
date while she watched over his shoulder. 

“ Discovered what seems to be a small dark-red newt 
under a stone near Hurryon Brook. Couldn’t make it 
bite me, so let Kathleen hold it. Query: Is it a land or 
water lizard, a salamander, or a newt; and what does it 
feed on and where does it deposit its eggs? ” 

Kathleen’s violet eyes wandered to the written page 
opposite. | 

“ Did you really see an otter, Scott? ” 

“Yes, I did!” he exclaimed. “Out in the Gray 
Water, swimming like a dog. That was yesterday 
afternoon. It’s a scarce creature here. I'll tell you 

140 


ADRIFT 








what, Kathleen ; we'll take our luncheon and go out and 
spend the day watching for it.” 

** No,” she said, drying her hands on her handker- 
chief, “ I can’t spend every minute of the day with you. 
Ask some other woman.” 

* What other woman?” She was gazing out at the 
sunlit ripples. A little unquiet thrill leaped through her 
veins, but she went on carelessly: 

“Take some pretty woman out with you. There 
are several here——” 

“Pretty woman,” he repeated. “Do you think 
that’s the only reason I want you to come? ” 

“Only reason? What a silly thing to say, Scott. 
I am not a pretty woman to you—in that sense———” 

* You are the prettiest I ever saw,” he said, looking 
at her; and again the unquiet thrill ran like lightning 
through her veins. But she only laughed carelessly 
and said: 

“Oh, of course, Geraldine and I expect our big 
brother to say such things.” 

“It has nothing to do with Geraldine or with 
brothers,” he said doggedly. She strove to laugh, 
caught his gaze, and, discountenanced, turned toward 
the stream. 

“We can cross on the stepping stones,” she sug- 
gested. And after a moment: “ Are you coming? ” 

“ See here, Kathleen,” he said, “ you’re not acting 
squarely with me.” 

** What do you mean? ” 

“No, you’re not. I’m a man, and you know it.” 

“Of course you are, Scott.” 

“Then I wish you’d recognise it. What’s the use 
of mortifying me when I act—speak—behave as any 
man behaves who—who—is—fond of a—person.” 

141 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ But I don’t mean to—to mortify you. What have 
I done? ” 

He dug his hands into the pockets of his riding 
breeches, took two or three short turns along the bank, 
came back to where she was standing. 

“You probably don’t remember,” he said, “ one 
night this spring when—when—” He stopped short. 
The vivid tint in her cheeks was his answer—a 
swift, disconcerting answer to an incomplete question, 
the remainder of which he himself had scarcely yet 
analysed. 

“Scott, dear,” she said steadily, in spite of her 
softly burning cheeks, “I will be quite honest with you 
if you wish. I do know what you’ve been trying to say. 
I am conscious that you are no longer the boy I could 
pet and love and caress without embarrassment to either 
of us. You are a man, but try to remember that I am 
several years older re 

“ Does that matter! ” he burst out. 

“ Yes, dear, it does. . . . I care for you—and Ger- 
aldine—more than for anybody in the world. I under- 
stand your loyalty to me, Scott, and I—I love it. But 
don’t confuse it with any serious sentiment.” 

“I do care seriously.” 

“You make me very happy. Care for me very, very 
seriously ; I want you to; I—I need it. But don’t mis- 
take the kind of affection that we have for each other 
for anything deeper, will you? ” 

“ Don’t you want to care for me—that way? ” 

“ Not that way, Scott.” 

“ Why? 39 

“T’ve told you. I am so much older ‘as 

“ Couldn’t you, all the same? ” 

She was trembling inwardly. She leaned against a 

142 








ADRIFT 








white birch-tree and passed one hand across her eyes and 
upward through the thick burnished hair. 

** No, I couldn’t,” she whispered. 

The boy walked to the edge of the brook. Past him 
hurried the sun-tipped ripples; under them, in irregu- 
lar wedge formation, little ones ahead, big ones in the 
rear, lay a school of trout, wavering silhouettes of 
amber against the bottom sands. 

One arm encircling the birch-tree, she looked after 
him in silence, waiting. And after a while he turned 
and came back to her: 

“I suppose you knew I fell in love with you that 
night when—when—you remember, don’t you? ” 

She did not answer. 

*T don’t know how it happened,” he said: ‘ some- 
thing about you did it. I want to say that I’ve loved 
you ever since. It’s made me serious. . . . I haven’t 
bothered with girls since. You are the only woman 
who interests me. I think about you most of the time 
when I’m not doing something else,” he explained 
naively. “I know perfectly well I’m in love with you 
because I don’t dare touch you—and I’ve never thought 
of—of kissing you good-night as we used to before 
that night last spring. . . . You remember that we 
didn’t do it that night, don’t you? ” 

Still no answer, and Kathleen’s delicate, blue-veined 
hands were clenched at her sides and her breath came 
irregularly. 

“That was the reason,” he said. “I don’t know 
how I’ve found courage to tell you. I’ve often been 
afraid you would laugh at me if I told you. . . . If it’s 
only our ages—you seem as young as I do... .” He 
looked up, hopefully; but she made no response. 

The boy drew a long breath. 

143 


THE DANGER MARK 








“I love you, anyway,” he said. “ And that’s how 
it is.” 

She neither spoke nor stirred. 

“I suppose,” he went on, ‘ because I was such a 
beast of a boy, you can never forget it.” 

“You were the sweetest, the best—’ Her voice 

broke; she swung about, moved away a few paces, stood 
_ still. When he halted behind her she turned. 
: ** Dearest,” she said tremulously, “ let me give you 
_ what I can—love, as always—solicitude, companionship, 
deep sympathy in your pleasures, deep interest in your 
amusements. . . . Don’t ask for more; don’t think that 
you want more. Don’t try to change the loyalty and 
love you have always had for something you—neither 
_ of us understand—neither of us ought to desire—or 
even think o , 

“cc Why? 39 

“ Can’t you understand? Even if I were not too 
old in years, I dare not give up what I have of you 
and Geraldine for this new—for anything more hazard- 
_ ous. . . . Suppose it were so—that I could venture to 
think I cared for you that way? What might I put in 
peril?—Geraldine’s affection for me—perhaps her re- 
lations with you. . . . And the world is cynical, Scott, 
and you are wealthy even among very rich men, and 
I was your paid guardian—quite penniless—engaged 
to care for and instruct 

“Don’t say such things!” he said angrily. 

“The world would say them—your friends—per- 
haps Geraldine might be led to doubt—Oh, Scott, dear, 
I know, I know! And above all—I am afraid. There 
are too many years between us—too many blessed memo- 
ries of my children to risk. . . . Don’t try to make me 
care for you in any other way.” 

144 


’ 








ADRIFT 








A quick flame leaped in his eyes. 

* Could I?” 

“No!” she ui tlatanate appalled. 

“Then why do you ask me not to try? I believe I 
could!” 

* You cannot! You cannot, believe me. Won’t you 
believe me? It must not happen; it is all wrong—in 
every way ‘ 

He stood looking at her with a new expression on 
his face. 

“If you are so alarmed,” he said slowly, “ you must 
have already thought about it. You'll think about it 
now, anyway.” 

“We are both going to forget it. Promise that 
you will!” She added hurriedly: “ Drop my hand, 
please; there is Geraldine—and Mr. Grandcourt, tod! 

. Tell me—do my eyes look queer? Are they red 
and horrid? . . . Don’t look at me that way. For 
goodness’ sake, don’t display any personal interest in 
me. Go and turn over some flat rocks and find some 
lizards!” 

Geraldine, bare-armed and _ short-skirted, came 
swinging along the woodland path, Delancy Grand- 
court dogging her heels, as usual, carrying a pair of 
rods and catching the artificial flies in the bushes at 
every step. 

* We're all out of trout at the house!” she called 
across to the stream to her brother. ‘ Jack Dysart is 
fishing down the creek with Naida and Sylvia. Where 
is Duane? ” 

“Somewhere around, I suppose,” replied Scott 
- sulkily. His sister took a running jump, cleared the 
bank, and alighted on a rock in the stream. Poised 
there she looked back at Grandcourt, laughed, sprang 

145 





THE DANGER MARK 








forward from stone to stone, and leaped to the moss 
beside Kathleen. 

“ Hello, dear!” she nodded. “ Where did you cross? 
And where is Duane? ” 

“* We crossed by the log bridge below,” replied Kath- 
leen. She added: “ Duane left us half an hour ago. 
Wasn’t it half an hour ago, Scott?” with a rising in- 
fiection that conveyed something of warning, some- | 
thing of an appeal. But on Scott’s face the sul- 
len disconcerted expression had not entirely faded, 
and his sister inspected him curiously. Then with- 
out knowing why, exactly, she turned and looked at 
Kathleen. 

There was a subdued and dewy brilliancy in Kath- 
leen’s eyes, a bright freshness to her cheeks, radiantly 
and absurdly youthful; and something else—something 
so indefinable, so subtle, that only another woman’s in- 
stinct might divine it—something invisible and inward, 
which transfigured her with a youthful loveliness almost 
startling. 

They looked at one another. Geraldine, conscious 
of something she could not understand, glanced again 
at her sulky brother. 

“ What’s amiss, Scott?” she asked. “Has any- 
thing gone wrong anywhere? ” 

Scott, pretending to be very busy untangling Grand- 
court’s cast from the branches of a lusty young birch, 
said, “No, of course not,” and the girl, wondering, 
turned to Kathleen, who sustained her questioning eyes 
without a tremor. 

“ What’s the matter with Scott? ” asked his sister. 
“He’s the guiltiest-looking man—why, it’s absurd, 
Kathleen! Upon my word, the boy is blushing!” 

“What!” exclaimed Scott so furiously that every- 

146 


ADRIFT 








body laughed. And presently Geraldine asked again 
where Duane was. 

“Rosalie Dysart is canoeing on the Gray Water, 
and she hailed him and he left us and went down to the 
river,” said Kathleen carelessly. 

** Did Duane join her? ” 

“T think so—” She hesitated, watching Geraldine’s 
sombre eyes. “I really don’t know,” she added. And, 
in a lower voice: “ I wish either Duane or Rosalie would 
go. They certainly are behaving unwisely.” 

Geraldine turned and looked through the woods 
toward the Gray Water. 

“It’s their affair,” she said curtly. “ve got to 
make Delancy fish or we won’t have enough trout for 
luncheon. Scott!” calling to her brother, “ your hor- 
rid trout won’t rise this morning. For goodness’ 
sake, try to catch something beside lizards and water- 
beetles ! ” 

For a moment she stood looking around her, as 
though perplexed and preoccupied. There was sun- 
light on the glade and on the ripples, but the daylight 
seemed to have become duller to her. 

She walked up-stream for a little distance be- 
fore she noticed Grandcourt plodding faithfully at her 
heels, 

“Oh!” she said impatiently, “I thought you were 
fishing. You must catch something, you know, or we’ll 
all go hungry.” 

“ Nothing bites on these bally flies,” he explained. 

“ Nothing bites because your flies are usually caught 
in a tree-top. Trout are not arboreal. I’m ashamed of 
you, Delancy. If you can’t keep your line free in the 
woods ”—she hesitated, then reddening a little under 
her tan—* you had better go and get a canoe and find 

147 


THE DANGER MARK 








Duane Mallett and help him catch—something worth 
while.” 

“ Don’t you want me to stay with you?” asked the 
big, awkward fellow appealingly. ‘“ There’s no fun in 
being with Rosalie and Duane.” 

“No, I don’t. Look! Your flies are in that bush! 
Untangle them and go to the Gray Water.” 

** Won’t you come, too, Miss Seagrave? ” 

“No; I’m going back to the house. . . . And don’t 
you dare return without a decent brace of trout.” 

* All right,” he said resignedly. The midges both- 
ered him; he mopped his red face, tugged at the line, 
but the flies were fast in a hazel bush. 

“Damn this sort of thing,” he muttered, looking 
piteously after Geraldine. She was already far away 
among the trees, skirts wrapped close to avoid briers, 
big straw hat dangling in one hand. 

As she walked toward the Sachem’s Gate she was 
swinging her hat and singing, apparently as uncon- 
cernedly as though care rested lightly upon her young 
shoulders. 

Out on the high-road a number of her guests whizzed 
past in one of Scott’s motors; there came a swift 
hail, a gust of wind-blown laughter, and the car was 
gone in a whirl of dust. She stood in the road 
watching it recede, then walked forward again toward 
the house. 

Her accustomed elasticity appeared to have left her; 
the sun was becoming oppressive; her white-shod feet 
dragged a little, which was so unusual that she straight- 
ened her head and shoulders with nervous abruptness. 

“What on earth is the matter with me? ” she said, 
half aloud, to herself. 

During these last two months, and apparently apro- 

148 


ADRIFT 








pos of nothing at all, an unaccustomed sense of depres- 
sion sometimes crept upon her. 

At first she disregarded it as the purely physical 
lassitude of spring, but now it was beginning to dis- 
quiet her. .Once a hazy suspicion took shape—has- 
tily dismissed—that some sense, some temporarily sup- 
pressed desire was troubling her. The same idea had 
awakened again that evening on the terrace when the 
faint odour from the decanter attracted her. And again 
she suspected, and shrank away into herself, shocked, 
frightened, surprised, yet still defiantly incredulous. 

Yet her suspicions had been correct. It was habit, 
disturbed by the tardiness of accustomed tribute, that 
stirred at moments, demanding recognition. 

Since that night in early spring when fear and hor- 
ror of herself had suddenly checked a custom which she 
had hitherto supposed to be nothing worse than foolish, 
twice—at times inadvertently, at times deliberately— 
she had sought relief from sleepless nervousness and 
this new depression in the old and apparently harmless 
manner of her girlhood. For weeks now she had exer- 
cised little control of herself, feeling immune, yet it 
scared her a little to recognise again in herself the 
restless premonitions of desire. For here, in the sun- 
shine of the forest-bordered highway, that same dull 
uneasiness was stirring once more. 

It was true, other things had stirred her to uneasi- 
ness that morning—an indefinable impression concern- 
ing Kathleen—a definite one which concerned Rosalie 
Dysart and Duane, and which began to exasperate her. 

All her elasticity was gone now; tired without rea- 
son, she plodded on along the road in her little white 
shoes, head bent, brown eyes brooding, striving to fix 
her wandering thoughts on Duane Mallett to fight down 

149 


THE DANGER MARK 








the threatening murmurs of a peril still scarcely com- 
prehended. 

“ Anyway,” she said half aloud, “even if I ever 
could care for him, I dare not let myself do it with this 
absurd inclination always threatening me.” 

She had said it! Scarcely yet understanding the 
purport of her own words, yet electrified, glaringly en- 
lightened by them, she halted. A confused sense that 
something vital had occurred in her life stilled her heart 
and her breathing together. 

After a moment she straightened up and walked for- 
ward, turned across the lawn and into the syringa- 
bordered drive. 

There was nobody in the terrace except Bunbury 
Gray in a brilliant waistcoat, who sat smoking a very 
large faience pipe and reading a sporting magazine. 
He got up with alacrity when he saw her, fetched her 
a big wicker chair, evidently inclined to let her divert 
him. 

“Oh, I’m not going to,” she observed, sinking into 
the cushions. For a moment she felt rather limp, then 
a quiver passed through her, tightening the relaxed 
nerves. 

“ Bunbury,” she said, “ do you know any men who 
ever get tired of idleness and clothes and their neigh- 
bours’ wives? ” 

“Sure,” he said, surprised, “I get tired of those 
things all right. I’ve got enough of this tailor, for 
example,” looking at his trousers. “I’m tired of idle- 
ness, too. Shall we do something and forget the cut of 
my clothes? ” 

“What do you do when you tire of people and 
things? ” 

“ Change partners or go away. That’s easy.” 

150 


ADRIFT 








“You can’t change yourself—or go away from 
yourself.” 

** But I don’t get tired of myself,” he explained in 
astonishment. She regarded him curiously from the 
depths of her wicker chair. 

“Bunbury, do you remember when we were en- 
gaged?” 

He grinned. “Rather. I wouldn’t mind being it 
again.” 

“ Engaged? ” 

“Sure thing. Will you take me on again, Ger- 
aldine? ” 

“T thought you cared for Sylvia Quest.” 

“T do, but I can stop it.” 

She still regarded him with brown-eyed curiosity. 

** Didn’t you really tire of our engagement? ” 

**You did. You said that my tailor is the vital part 
of me.” 

She laughed. “Well, you are only a carefully 
groomed combination of New York good form and good 
nature, aren’t you? ” 

“1 don’t know. That’s rather rough, isn’t it? Or 
do you really mean it that way? ” 

“No, Bunny dear. I only mean that you’re like 
the others. All the men I know are about the same sort. 
You all wear too many ties and waistcoats; you are, and 
say, and do too many kinds of fashionable things. You 
play too much tennis, drink too many pegs, gamble too 
much, ride and drive too much. You all have too much 
and too many—if you understand that! You ask too 
much and you give too little; you say too much which 
means too little. Is there none among you who knows 
something that amounts to something, and how to say 
it and do it?” 

11 151 


THE DANGER MARK 








“What the deuce are you driving at, Geraldine? ” 
he asked, bewildered. 

“T’m just tired and irritable, Bunny, and I’m tak- 
ing it out on you. . . . Because you were always kind 
—and even when foolish you were often considerate. 
. . . That’s a new waistcoat, isn’t it? ” 

** Well—I don’t—know,” he began, perplexed and 
suspicious, but she cut him short with a light little 
laugh and reached out to pat his hand. 

* Don’t mind me. You know I like you... . Tm 
only bored with your species. What do you do when 
you don’t know what to do, Bunny?” 

“Take a peg,” he said, brightening up. “ Do you 
—shall I call somebody “ 

“No, please.” 

She extended her slim limbs and crossed her feet. 
Lying still there in the sunshine, arms crooked behind 
her head, she gazed straight out ahead. Light breezes 
lifted her soft bright hair; the same zephyrs bore from 
tennis courts on the east the far laughter and calling 
of the unseen players. 

“Who are they? ” she inquired. 

* The Pink ’uns, Naida, and Jack Dysart. There’s 
ten up on every set,” he added, “ and I’ve side obliga- 
tions with Rosalie and Duane. Take you on if you like; 
odds are on the Pink ’uns. Or I'll get a lump of sugar 
and we can play ‘ Fly Loo.’ ” 

“ No, thanks.” 

A few moments later she said: 

“Do you know, somehow, recently, the forest world 
—all this pretty place of lakes and trees—” waving her 
arm toward the horizon—“ seems to be tarnished with 
the hard living and empty thinking of the people I 
have brought into it. ...I include myself. The 

152 





ADRIFT 








region is redolent of money and the things it buys. 
I had a better time before I had any or heard about it.” 

“Why, you’ve always had it———” 

** But I didn’t know it. Id like to give mine away 
and do something for a living.” 

“Oh, every girl has that notion once in a lifetime.” 

‘** Have they?” she asked. 

“Sure. It’s hysteria. I had it myself once. But 
I found I could keep busy enough doing nothing with- 
out presenting my income to the Senegambians and 
spending life in a Wall Street office. Of course if I had 
a pretty fancy for the artistic and useful—as Duane 
Mallett has—I suppose I’d get busy and paint things 
and sell ’em by the perspiration of my brow _ 

She said disdainfully : “ If you were never any busier 
than Duane, you wouldn’t be very busy.” 

“IT don’t know. Duane seems to keep at it, even 
here, doesn’t he? ” 

She looked up in surprise: ‘“‘ Duane hasn’t done 
any work since he’s been here, has he? ” 

“ Didn’t you know? What do you suppose he’s 
about every morning? ” 

“He’s about—Rosalie,” she said coolly. “I’ve 
never seen any colour box or easel in their outfit.” 

“Oh, he keeps his traps at Hurryon Lodge. He’s 
made a lot of sketches. I saw several at the Lodge. 
And he’s doing a big canvas of Rosalie down there, 
too.” 

** At Hurryon Lodge? ” 

“Yes. Miller lets them have the garret for a 
studio.” 

**T didn’t know that,” she said slowly. 

“ Didn’t you? People are rather catty about it.” 

“ Catty?” 








153 


THE DANGER MARK 








Sheer surprise silenced her for a while, then hurt 
curiosity drove her to questions; but little Bunbury 
didn’t know much more about the matter, merely shrug- 
ging his shoulders and saying: “ It’s casual but it’s all 
right.” 

Later the tennis players, sunburned and perspiring, 
came swinging up from the courts on their way to the 
showers. Bunbury began to settle his obligations; 
Naida and the Pink ’uns went indoors; Jack Dysart, 
handsome, dishevelled, sat down beside Geraldine, fasten- 
ing his sleeves. 

*T lost twice twenty,” he observed. “ Bunny is in 
fifty, I believe. Duane and Rosalie lose.” 

“Ts that all you care about the game? ” she Narre 
with a note of contempt in her voice. 

“Oh, it’s good for one’s health,” he said. 

** So is confession, but there’s no sport in it. Tell 
me, Mr. Dysart, don’t you play any game for it’s own 
sake? ” 

“Two, mademoiselle,” he said politely. 

“What two?” 

** Chess is one.” 

** What is the other? ” 

“ Love,” he replied, smiling at her so blandly that 
she laughed. Then she thought of Rosalie, and it was 
on the tip of her tongue to say something impudent. 
But “ Do you do that game very well? ” was all she said. 

“Would you care to judge how well I do it?” 

“As umpire? Yes, if you like.” 

He said: “ We will umpire our own game, Miss Sea- 
grave.” 

“Oh, we couldn’t do that, could we? We couldn’t 
play and umpire, too.” Suddenly the thought of Duane 
and Rosalie turned her bitter and she said: 

154 


ADRIFT 








“We'll have two perfectly disinterested umpires. 
I choose your wife for one. Whom do you choose? ” 

Over his handsome face the slightest muscular 
change passed, but far from wincing he nodded coolly. 

** One umpire is enough,” he said. “ When our game 
is well on you may ask Rosalie to judge how well I’ve 
done it—if you care to.” 

The bright smile she wore changed. Her face was 
now only a lovely dark-eyed mask, behind which her 
thoughts had suddenly begun racing—wild little 
thoughts, all tumult and confusion, all trembling, too, 
with some scarcely understood hurt lashing them to 
recklessness. 

* We'll have two umpires,” she insisted, scarcely 
knowing what she said. “Ill choose Duane for the 
second. He and Rosalie ought to be able to agree on 
the result of our game.” 

Dysart turned his head away leisurely, then looked 
around again unsmiling. 

“Two umpires? Soit! But that means you con- 
sent to play.” 

“es Play? 9 

* Certainly.” 

* With you?” 

“With me.” 

“‘T’ll consider it. . . . Do you know we have been 
talking utter nonsense? ” 

“'That’s part of the game.” 

“Oh, then—do you assume that the—the game has 
already begun? ” 

“Tt usually opens that way, I believe.” 

“* And where does it end, Mr. Dysart? ” 

“That is for you to say,” he replied in a lower 


voice. 
155 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Oh! And what are the rules? ” 

“The player who first falls really in love loses. 
There are no stakes. We play as sportsmen—for the 
game’s sake. Is it understood? ” 

She hesitated, smiling, a little excited, a little inter- 
ested in the way he put things. 

At that same moment, across the lawn, Rosalie and 
Duane strolled into view. She saw them, and with a 
nervous movement, almost involuntary, she turned her 
back on them. 

Neither she nor Dysart spoke. She gazed very 
steadily at the horizon, as though there were sounds 
beyond the green world’s rim. A few seconds later a 
shadow fell over the terrace at her feet—two shadows 
intermingled. She saw them on the grass at her feet, 
then quietly lifted her head. 

“We caught no trout,” said Rosalie, sitting down 
on the arm of the chair that Duane drew forward. “I 
fussed about in that canoe until Duane came along, and 
then. we went in swimming.” 

* Swimming? ” repeated Geraldine, dumfounded. 

Rosalie balanced herself serenely on her chair-arm. 

“Oh, we often do that.” 

** Swim—where? ” 

“Why across the Gray Water, child! ” 

** But—there are no bath houses . 

Rosalie laughed outright. 

* Quite Arcadian, isn’t it? Duane has the forest 
on one side of the Gray Water for a dressing-room, and 
I the forest on the other side. Then we swim out and 
shake hands in the middle. Our bathing dresses are dry- 
ing on Miller’s lawn. Please do tell me somebody is 
scandalised. I’ve done my best to brighten up this 
house party.” 





156 


ADRIFT 








Dysart, really discountenanced, but not showing it, 
lighted a cigarette and asked pleasantly if the water 
was agreeable. 

“It’s magnificent,” said Duane; “it was like div- 
ing into a lake of iced Apollinaris. Geraldine, why on 
earth don’t you build some bath houses on the Gray 
Waters? ” 

Perhaps she had not heard his question. She began 
to talk very animatedly to Rosalie about several mat- 
ters of no consequence. Dysart rose, stretched his sun- 
burned arms with over-elaborate ease, tossed away his 
cigarette, picked up his tennis bat, and said: ** See you 
at luncheon. Are you coming, Rosalie? ” 

“In a moment, Jack.” She went on talking incon- 
sequences to Geraldine; her husband waited, exchanging 
a remark or two with Duane in his easy, self-possessed 
fashion. 

“ Dear,” said Rosalie at last to Geraldine, ‘** I must 
run away and dry my hair. How did we come out at 
tennis, Jack? ” 

** All to the bad,” he replied serenely, and nodding 
to Geraldine and Duane he entered the house, his young 
wife strolling beside him and twisting up her wet hair. 

Duane seated himself and crossed his lank legs, 
ready for an amiable chat before he retired to dress for 
luncheon ; but Geraldine did not even look toward him. 
She was lying deep in the chair, apparently relaxed 
and limp; but every nerve in her was at tension, every 
delicate muscle taut and rigid, and in her heart was 
anger unutterable, and close, very close to the lids which 
shadowed with their long fringe the brown eyes’ velvet, 
were tears. 

“* What have you been up to all the morning? ” he 
asked. “ Did you try the fishing? ” 

157 


THE DANGER MARK 








“é Yes.” 

“ Anything doing?” 

ae No.” 

“‘T thought they wouldn’t rise. It’s too clear and 
hot. That’s why I didn’t keep on with Kathleen and 
Scott. Two are enough on bright water. Don’t you 
think so? ” 

She said nothing. 

‘* Besides,” he added, “‘ I knew you had old Grand- 
court running close at heel and that made four rods 
on Hurryon. So what was the use of my joining 
in? 93 \ 

She made no reply. 

** You didn’t mind, did you? ” he asked carelessly. 

ce No.” 

“Oh, all right,” he nodded, not feeling much re- 
lieved. 

The strange blind anger still possessed her. She 
lay there immobile, expressionless, enduring it, not try- | 
ing even to think why; yet her anger was rising against 
him, and it surged, receded helplessly, flushed her veins 
again till they tingled. But her lids remained closed; 
the lashes rested softly on the curve of her cheeks; not 
a tremor touched her face. 

“I am wondering whether you are feeling all right,” 
he ventured uneasily, conscious of the tension between 
them. 

With an effort she took command of herself. 

** The sun was rather hot. It’s a headache; I walked 
back by the road.” 

“* With the faithful one? ” 

“No,” she said evenly, “ Mr. Grandcourt remained 
to fish.” 

“He went to worship and remained to fish,’ said 

158 


ADRIFT 








Duane, laughing. The girl lifted her face to look at 
him—a white little face so strange that the humour 
_died out in his eyes. . 

** He’s a good deal of a man,” she said. “It’s one 
of my few pleasant memories of this year—Mr. Grand- 
court’s niceness to me—and to all women.” 

She set her elbow on the chair’s edge and rested her 
cheek in her hollowed hand. Her gaze had become re- 
mote once more. 

**T didn’t know you took him so seriously,” he said 
in a low voice. “I’m sorry, Geraldine.” 

All her composure had returned. She lifted her eyes 
insolently. 

“Sorry for what? ” 

“For speaking as I did.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind. I thought you might be sorry 
for yourself.” 

“ Myself? ” 

** And your neighbour’s wife,” she added. 

“Well, what about myself and my neighbour’s 
wife? ” 

“T’m not familiar with such matters.” Her face 
did not change, but the burning anger suddenly welled 
up in her again. “I don’t know anything about such 
affairs, but if you think I ought to I might try to 
learn.” She laughed and leaned back into the depths 
of her chair. “You and I are such intimate friends 
it’s a shame I shouldn’t understand and sympathise 
with what most interests you.” 

He remained silent, gazing down at his shadow on 
the grass, hands clasped loosely between his knees. She 
strove to study him calmly; her mind was chaos; only 
the desire to hurt him persisted, rendered sterile by the 
confused tumult of her thoughts. 

12 159 


”° 


THE DANGER MARK 








Presently, looking up: 

“Do you doubt that things are not right between— 
my neighbour’s wife—and me? ” he inquired. 

“The matter doesn’t interest me.” 

“ Doesn’t it? ” 

ee No.” 

* Then I have misunderstood you. What is the mat- 
ter that does interest you, Geraldine? ” 

She made no reply. 

He said, carelessly good-humoured: “ I like women. 
It’s curious that they know it instinctively, because 
when they’re bored or lonely they drift toward me. . . . 
Lonely women are always adrift, Geraldine. There 
seems to be some current that sets in toward me; it 
catches them and they drift in, linger, and drift on. 
I seem to be the first port they anchor in. . . . Then 
a day comes when they are gone—drifting on at hazard 
through the years sf 

“Wiser for their experience at Port Mallett? ” 

“Perhaps. But not sadder, I think.” 

* A woman adrift has no regrets,” she said with 
contempt. 

“Wrong. A woman who is in love has none.” 

“That is what I mean. The hospitality of Port 
Mallett ought to leave them with no regrets.” 

_ He laughed. ‘“ But they are not loved,” he said. 
* They know it. That’s why they drift on.” 

She turned on him white and tremulous. 

** Haven’t you even the excuse of caring for her? ” 

oe Who? 99 

“ A neighbour’s wife—who comes drifting into your 
hospitable haven! ” 

“TI don’t pretend to love her, if that is what you 
mean,” he said pleasantly. 





160 


ADRIFT 








“Then you make her believe it—and that’s das- 
tardly!” 

“Oh, no. Women don’t love unless made love to. 
You’ve only read that in books.” 

She said a little breathlessly: “ You are right. I 
know men and women only through books. It’s time I 
learned for myself.” 


CHAPTER VII 
TOGETHER 


Tuer end of June and of the house party at Roya- 
Neh was now near at hand, and both were to close with 
a moonlight féte and dance in the forest, invitations 
having been sent to distant neighbours who had been ~ 
entertaining similar gatherings at Iron Hill and Cloudy 
Mountain—the Crays, Beekmans, Ellises, and Grand- 
courts. 

Silks and satins, shoe buckles and powdered hair 
usually mark the high tide of imaginative originality 
among this sort of people. So it was to be the inevi- 
table Louis XVI féte—or as near to it as attenuated, 
artistic intelligence could manage, and they altered 
Duane’s very clever and correct sketches to suit them- 
selves, careless of anachronism, and sent the dainty 
water-colour drawings to town in order that those who 
sweat and sew in the perfumed ateliers of Fifth Avenue 
might use them as models. 

“The fun—if there’s any in dressing up—ought to 
lie in making your own costumes,” observed Duane. But 
nobody displayed any inclination to do so. And now, 
on hurry orders, the sewers in the hot Fifth Avenue 
ateliers sewed faster. Silken and satin costumes, paste 
jewelry and property small-swords were arriving by 
express; maids flew about the house at Roya-Neh, try- 
ing on, fussing with lace and ribbon, bodice and flow- 
ered pannier, altering, retrimming, adjusting. Their 

162 


TOGETHER 








mistresses met in one another’s bedrooms for myste- 
rious confabs over head-dress and coiffure, lace scarf, 
and petticoat. 

As for the men, they surreptitiously tried on their 
embroidered coats and breeches, admired themselves in 
secrecy, and let it go at that, returning with embar- 
rassed relief to cards, tennis, and the various forms of 
amiable idleness to which they were accustomed. Only 
Englishmen can masquerade seriously. 

Later, however, the men were compelled to pay 
some semblance of attention to the general prep- 
arations, assemble their foot-gear, head-gear, stars, 
orders, sashes, swords, and try them on for Duane 
Mallett—to that young man’s unconcealed dissatis- 
faction. 

“You certainly resemble a scratch opera chorus,” 
he observed after passing in review the sheepish line-up 
in his room. “ Delancy, you’re the limit as a Black 
Mousquetier—and, by the way, there weren’t any in 
the reign of Louis XVI, so perhaps that evens up mat- 
ters. Dysart is the only man who looks the real thing 
—or would if he’d remove that monocle. As for Bunny 
and the Pink ’un, they ought to be in vaudeville singing 
la-la-la.” 

“ 'That’s really a compliment to our legs,” observed 
Reggie Wye to Bunbury Gray, flourishing his prop- 
erty sword and gracefully performing a pas seul a la 
Génée. 

Dysart, who had been sullen all day, regarded them 
morosely. 

Scott Seagrave, in his conventional abbé’s costume 
of black and white, excessively bored, stood by the win- 
dow trying to catch a glimpse of the lake to see whether 
any decent fish were breaking, while Scott walked 

163 — 


THE DANGER MARK 








around him critically, not much edified by his costume 
or the way he wore it. 

“ You’re a sad and self-conscious-looking bunch,” he 
concluded. ‘“ Scott, I suppose you'll insist on wearing 
your mustache and eyeglasses.” 

* You bet,” said Scott simply. 

“ All right. And kindly beat it. I want to try on 
my own plumage in peace.” 

So the costumed ones trooped off to their own quar- 
ters with the half-ashamed smirk usually worn by the 
American male who has persuaded himself to frivolity. 
Delancy Grandcourt tramped away down the hall bang- 
ing his big sword, jingling his spurs, and flapping 
his loose boots. The Pink ’un and Bunbury Gray 
-slunk off into obscurity, and Scott wandered back 
through the long hall until a black-and-red tiger moth 
attracted his attention, and he forgot his annoying 
appearance in frantic efforts to capture the brilliant 
moth. 

Dysart, who had been left alone with Duane in the 
latter’s room, contemplated himself sullenly in the mir- 
ror while Duane, seated on the window sill, waited for 
him to go. 

* You think I ought to eliminate my eye-glass? ” 
asked Dysart, still inspecting himself. 

* Yes, in deference to the conventional prejudice of 
the times. Nobody wore ’em at that period.” 

* You seem to be a stickler for convention—of the 
Louis XVI sort more than for the XIX century va- 
riety,” remarked Dysart with a sneer. 

Duane looked up from his bored contemplation of 
the rug. 

* You think I’m unconventional? ” he asked with a 
smile. 


164 


TOGETHER 








“T believe I suggested something of the sort to my 
wife the other day.” 

“ Ah,” said Duane blandly, “does she agree with 
you, Dysart?” 

*“* No doubt she does, because your tendencies toward 
the unconventional have been the subject of unpleasant 
comment recently.” 

“By some of your. débutante conquests? You 
mustn’t believe all they tell you.” 

“My own eyes and ears are competent witnesses. 
Do you understand me now? ” 

“No. Neither do you. Don’t rely on such wit- 
nesses, Dysart; they lack character to corroborate 
them. Ask your wife to confirm me—if you ever find 
time enough to ask her anything.” 

** That’s a damned impudent thing to say,” returned 
Dysart, staring at him. <A dull red stained his face, 
then faded. 

Duane’s eyebrows went up—just a shade—yet so 
insolently that the other stepped forward, the corners 
of his mouth white and twitching. 

**T can speak more plainly,” he said. “If you can’t 
appreciate a pleasant hint I can easily accommodate 
you with the alternative.” 

There was silence for a moment. 

“ Dysart,” said Duane, “ what chance do you think 
you’d have in landing the—alternative? ” 

*“ That concerns me,” said Dysart; and the pinched 
muscles around the mouth grew whiter and the man 
looked suddenly older. Duane had never before noticed 
how gray his temples were growing. 

He said in a voice under perfect control: “ You’re 
right; the chances you care to take with me concern 
yourself. As for your ill-humour, I suppose I have 

165 


THE DANGER MARK 








earned it by being attentive to your wife. What is it 
you wish; that my hitherto very harmless attentions 
should cease? ” 

“ Yes,” said Dysart, and his square jaw quivered. 

“ Well, they won’t. It takes the sort of man you 
are to strike classical attitudes. And, absurd as the 
paradox appears—and even taking into consideration 
your notorious indifference to your wife and your rather 
silly reputation as a débutante chaser—I do believe, 
Dysart, that, deep inside of you somewhere, there is 
enough latent decency to have inspired this resentment 
toward me—a resentment perfectly natural in any man 
who acts squarely toward his wife—but rather far 
fetched in your case.” 

Dysart, pallid, menacing, laid his hand on a chair. 

The other laughed. 

“As bad as that?” he asked contemptuously. 
* Don’t do it, Dysart; it isn’t in your line. You’re only 
a good-looking, popular, dancing man; all your devil- 
try is in your legs, and I’d be obliged if they’d presently 
waft you out of my room.” 

“TI suppose,” said Dysart unsteadily, “ that you 
would make yourself noisily ridiculous if I knocked your 
blackguard head off.” 

“It’s only in novels that people are knocked down 
successfully and artistically,” admitted the other. “In 
everyday life they resent it. Yes—if you do anything 
hysterical there will be some sort of a disgraceful noise, 
Isuppose. It’s shoot or suit in these unromantic days, 
Dysart, otherwise the newspapers laugh at you.” 

Dysart’s well-shaped fists relaxed, the chair dropped, 
but even when he let it go murder danced in his 
eyes. 

“Yes,” he said, “it’s shoot or a suit in these days; 


166 


TOGETHER 








you’re perfectly right, Mallett. And we’ll let it go at 
that for the present.” 

He stood a moment, straight, handsome, his clearly 
stencilled eyebrows knitted, watching Duane. What- 
ever in the man’s face and figure was usually colourless, 
unaccented, irresolute, disappeared as he glared rigidly 
at the other. 

For there is no resentment like the resentment of 
the neglectful, no jealousy like the jealousy of the 
faithless. 

“To resume, in plain English,” he said, “‘ keep away 
from my wife, Mallett. You comprehend that, don’t 
you?” 

* Perfectly. Now get out!” 

Dysart hesitated for the fraction of a second longer, 
as though perhaps expecting further reply, then turned 
on his heel and walked out. 

Later, while Duane was examining his own costume 
preparatory to trying it on, Scott Seagrave’s spec- 
tacled and freckled visage protruded into the room. 
He knocked as an after-thought. 

“Rosalie sent me. She’s dressed in all her gim- 
cracks and wants your expert opinion. I’ve got to 
go 39 

** Where is she? ” 

“In her room. I’m going out to the hatchery with 
Kathleen ¥ 

** Come and see Rosalie with me, first,” said Duane, 
passing his arm through Scott’s and steering him down 
the sunny corridor. 

When they knocked, Mrs. Dysart admitted them, 
revealing herself in full costume, painted and powdered, 
the blinds pulled down, and the electric lights burning 
behind their rosy shades. 

167 





THE DANGER MARK 








“It’s my final dress rehearsal,” she explained. 
“Mr. Mallett, is my hair sufficiently 4 la Lamballe to 
suit you?” 

“Yes, it is. You’re a perfect little porcelain figu- 
rette! TThere’s not an anachronism in you or your 
make-up. How did you do it?” 

“TI merely stuck like grim death to your sketches,” 
she said demurely. 

Scott eyed her without particular interest. ‘“ Very 
corking,” he said vaguely, “ but I’ve got to go down 
to the hatchery with Kathleen, so you won’t mind if I 
leave——” 

He closed the door behind him before anybody could 
speak. Duane moved toward the door. 

“Tt’s a charming costume,” he said, “ and most 
charmingly worn; your hair is exactly right—not too 
much powder, you know . 

* Where shall I put my patch? Here?” 

“ Higher.” 

‘Here? ” 

He came back to the centre of the room where she 
stood. 

“ Here,” he said, indenting the firm, cool ivory skin 
with one finger, “ and here. Wear two.” 

“ And my rings—do you think that my fingers are 
overloaded?” She held out her fascinating smooth 
little hands. He supported them on his upturned palms 
.and examined the gems critically. 

They talked for a few moments about the rings, then: 
“Thank you so much,” she said, with a carelessly 
friendly pressure. ‘ How about my shoes? Are the 
buckles of the period? ” 

One of her hands encountered his at hazard, lin- 
gered, dropped, the fingers still linked lightly in his. 

168 





TOGETHER 








She bent over, knees straight, and lifted the hem of her 
petticoat, displaying her Louis XVI footwear. 

** Shoes and buckles are all right,” he said; “ fault- 
less, true to the period—very fascinating. . .. I’ve 
got to go—one or two things to do——” 

They examined the shoes for some time in silence; 
still bending over she turned her dainty head and looked 
around and up at him. There was a moment’s pause, 
then he kissed her. 

**T was afraid you’d do that—some day,” she said, 
straightening up and stepping back one pace, so that 
their linked hands now hung pendant between them. 

* T was sure of it, too,” he said. “ Now I think I’d 
better go—as all things are en régle, even the kiss, 
which was classical—pure—Louis XVI. . . . Besides, 
Scott was idiot enough to shut the door. That’s Louis 
XVI, too, but too much realism is never artistic.” 

“We could open the door again—if that’s why 
you’re running away from me.” 

** What’s the use? ” 

She glanced at the door and then calmly seated 
herself. 

* Do you think that we are together too much? ” 
she asked. 

** Hasn’t your husband made similar observations?” 
he replied, laughing. 

‘Tt isn’t for him to make them.” 

** Hasn’t he objected? ” 

“He has suddenly and unaccountably become dis- 
agreeable enough to make me wish he had some real 
grounds for his excitement!” she said coolly, and closed 
her teeth with a little click. She added, between them: 
“I’m inclined to give him something real to howl 
about.” 


169 


THE DANGER MARK 








He said: “ You’re adrift. Do you know it? ” 

“ Certainly I know it. Are you prepared to offer 
salvage? I’m past the need of a pilot.” 

He smiled. “ You haven’t drifted very far yet— 
only as far as Mallett Harbour. That’s usually the 
first port—for derelicts. Anchors are dropped rather 
frequently there—but, Rosalie, there’s no safe mooring 
except in the home port.” 

Her pretty, flushed face grew very serious as she 
looked up questioningly. 

*‘Isn’t there an anchorage near you, Duane? Are 
you quite sure? ” 

“ Why, no, dear, I’m not sure. But let me tell you 
something: it isn’t in me to love again. And that isn’t 
square to you.” 

After a silence she repeated: “ Again? Have you 
been in love? ” 

“ Yes.” 

** Are you embittered? I thought only callow fledg- 
lings moped.” 

“If I were embittered I’d offer free anchorage to 
all comers. That’s the fledgling idea—when blighted 
—bhe a ‘ deevil among the weemin,’” he said, laughing. 

“You have that hospitable reputation now,” she 
persisted, unsmiling. 

“Have I? Judge for yourself then—because no 
woman I ever knew cares anything for me now.” 

“You mean that if any of them had anything inti- 
mate to remember they’d never remain indifferent? ” 

* Well—yes.” 

“'They’d either hate you or remember you with a 
certain tenderness.” 

“Is that what happens?” he ikea amused. 

“T think so,” she said thoughtfully. . “ As for 

170 


TOGETHER 








what you said, you are right, Duane; I am adrift... . 
You—or a man like you could easily board me—take 
me in tow. I’m quite sure that something about me sig- 
nals a pilot; and that keen eyes and bitter tongues have 
noted it. And I don’t care. Nor do I know yet what 
my capabilities for evil are. . . . Do you care to—find © 
out? ” 

** It wouldn’t be a square deal to you, Rosalie.” 

** And—if I don’t care whether it’s a square deal or 
not? ” 

*“* Why, dear,” he said, covering her nervous, pretty 
hand with both of his, “Id break your heart in a 
week.” 

He laughed, dropped her fingers, stepped back to 
the door, and, laying his hand on the knob, said evenly: 

‘That husband of yours is not the sort of man I 
particularly take to, but I believe he’s about the average 
if you’d care to make him so.” 

She coloured with surprise. Then something in her 
scornful eyes inspired him with sudden intuition. 

“ As a matter of fact,” he said lightly, “ you care 
for him still.” 

“I can very easily prove the contrary,” she said, 
walking slowly up to him, close, closer, until the slight 
tremor of contact halted her and her soft, irregular 
breath touched his face. 

“What a girl like you needs,” he laughed, taking 
her into his arms, “is a man to hold her this way— 
every now and then, and ”’—he kissed her—* tell her 
she is incomparable—which I cannot truthfully tell 
you, dear.” He released her at arms’ length. 

“IT don’t know whose fault it is,’? he went on: “I 
don’t know whether he still really cares for you in spite 
of his weak peregrinations to other shrines ; but you still 

171 


99 


THE DANGER MARK 








care for him. And it’s up to you to make him what he 
can be—the average husband. There are only two 
kinds, Rosalie, the average and the bad.” 

She looked straight into his eyes, but the deep, 
mantling colour belied her audacity. 

“Do you know,” she said, “ that we haven’t—lived 
together for two years? ” 

* T don’t want to know such things,” he said gently. 

“Well, you do know now. I—am—very much 
alone. You see I have already become capable of say- 
ing anything—and of doing it, too.” 

There came a reckless glimmer into her eyes; she 
set her teeth—a trick of hers; the fresh lips parted 
slightly under her rapid breathing. 

“ Do you think,” she said unevenly, “ that I’m going 
on all my life like this—without anything more than the 
passing friendship of men to balance the example he 
sets me? ” 

“No, I think something is bound to happen, Rosa- 
lie. May I suggest what ought to happen? ” 

She nodded thoughtfully; only the quiver of her 
lower lip betrayed the tension of self-control. 

* Take him back,” he said. 

“T no longer care for him.” 

~“ You are mistaken.” 

After a moment she said: “I don’t think so; truly 
I don’t. All consideration for him has died in me. 
His conduct doesn’t matter—doesn’t hurt me any 
more——” 

“Yes, it does. He’s just a plain ass—an average 
* ass—ownerless, and, like all asses, convinced that he can 
take care of himself. Go and put the halter on him 
again.” 

“ Go—and—what do you mean? ” 

172 


TOGETHER 








“Tether him. You did once. It’s up to you; it’s 
usually up to a woman when a man wanders untethered. 
What one woman, or a dozen, can do with a man his 
wife can do in the same fashion! What won him in the 
beginning always holds good until he thinks he has won 
you. Then the average man flourishes his heels. He is 
doing it. What won him was not you alone, or love, 
alone; it was his uncertainty of both that fascinated 
him. That’s what charms him in others; uncertainty. 
Many men are that way. It’s a sporting streak in us. 
If you care for him now—if you could ever care for 
him, take him as you took him first. . . . Do you want 
him again? ” 

She stood leaning against the door, looking down. 
Much of her colour had died out. 

* T don’t know,” she said. 

“ee I do.”’ 

* Well—do I?” 

oe Yes.”’ 

* You think so? Why?” 

** Because he’s adrift, too. And he’s rather weak, 
rather handsome, easily influenced—un just, selfish, vain, 
wayward—just the average husband. And every wife 
ought to be able to manage these lords of creation, and 
keep them out of harm. . . . And keep them in love, 
Rosalie. And the way to do it is the way you did it 
first. . . . Try it.” He kissed her gaily, thinking he 
owed that much to himself. 

And through the door which had swung gently ajar, 
Geraldine Seagrave saw them, and Rosalie saw her. 

For a moment the girl halted, pale and rigid, and 
her heart seemed to cease its beating; then, as she 
passed with averted head, Rosalie caught Duane’s wrists 
in her jewelled grasp and released herself with a wrench. 

173 


THE DANGER MARK 








““'You’ve given me enough to think over,” she said. 
“If you want me to love you, stay—and close that 
door—and we’ll see what happens. If you don’t—you 
had better go at once, Duane. And leave my door open 
—to see what else fate will send me.” She clasped her 
hands behind her back, laughing nervously. 

** It’s like the old child’s game—‘ open your mouth 
and close your eyes and see what God will send you? ’>— 
usually something not at all resembling the awaited bon- 
bon. . . . Good-bye, my altruistic friend—and thank 
you for your XXth Century advice, and your Louis 
XVI assistance.” 

* Good-bye,” he returned smilingly, and sauntered 
back toward his room where his own untried finery 
awaited him. 

Ahead, far down the corridor, he caught sight of 
Geraldine, and called to her, but perhaps she did not 
hear him for he had to put on considerable speed to 
overtake her. 

“In these last few days,” he said laughingly, “I 
seldom catch a glimpse of you except when you are van- 
ishing into doorways or down corridors.” 

She said nothing, did not even turn her head or halt; 
and, keeping pace with her, he chatted on amiably 
about nothing in particular until she stopped abruptly 
and looked at him. 

“Tam ina hurry. What is it you want, Duane? ” 

“ Why—nothing,” he said in surprise. 

“That is less than you ask of—others.” And she 
turned to continue her way. 

“Is there anything wrong, Geraldine?” he asked, 
detaining her. 

“Is there? ” she replied, shaking off his hand from 
her arm. 

174 


TOGETHER 








** Not as far as I’m concerned.” — 

** Can’t you even tell the truth? ” she asked with a 
desperate attempt to laugh. 

“Wait a minute,” he said. ‘“ Evidently something 
has gone all wrong——” 

“‘ Several things, my solicitous friend; I for one, 
you for another. Count the rest for yourself.” 

“What has happened to you, Geraldine? ” 

** What has always threatened.” 

* Will you tell me? ” 

“No, I will not. So don’t try to look concerned 
and interested in a matter that regards me alone.” 

“ But what is it that has always threatened you? ” 
he insisted gently, coming nearer—too near to suit her, 
for she backed away toward the high latticed window 
through which the sun poured over the geraniums on the 
sill. There was a seat under it. Suddenly her knees 
threatened to give way under her; she swayed slightly 
as she seated herself; a wave of angry pain swept 
through her setting lids and lips trembling. 

** Now I want you to tell me what it is that you be- 
lieve has always threatened you.” 

* Do you think Id tell you?” she managed to say. 
Then her self-possession returned in a flash of exas- 
peration, but she controlled that, too, and laughed de- 
fiantly, confronting him with pretty, insolent face up- 
tilted. 

** What do you want to know about me? That I’m 
in the way of being ultimately damned like all the rest 
of you? ” she said. “ Well, I am. I’m taking chances. 
Some people take their chances in one way—like you 
and Rosalie; some take them in another—as I do. . . . 
Once I was afraid to take any; now I’m not. Who was 
it said that self-control is only immorality afraid? ” 

175 


THE DANGER MARK 








“‘ Will you tell me what is worrying you? ” he per- 
sisted. 

“No, but Tl tell you what annoys me if you 
like.” 

‘What? ” 

“ Fear of notoriety.” 

“* Notoriety? ” 

** Certainly—not for myself—for my house.” 

“Ts anybody likely to make it notorious? ” he de- 
manded, colouring up. 

* Ask yourself. . . . I haven’t the slightest interest 
in your personal conduct ”—there was a catch in her 
voice—* except when it threatens to besmirch my own 
home.” 

The painful colour gathered and settled under his 
cheek-bones. 

* Do you wish me to leave? ” 

“Yes, Ido. But you can’t without others knowing 
how and why.” 

“Oh, yes, I can ” 

“You are mistaken. I tell you others will know. 
Some do know already. And I don’t propose to figure 
with a flaming sword. Kindly remain in your Eden 
until it’s time to leave—with Eve.” 

* Just as you wish,” he said, smiling; and that in- 
furiated her. : 

“It ought to be as I wish! That much is due me, I 
think. Have you anything further to ask, or is your 
curiosity satisfied? ” 

“Not yet. You say that you think something 
threatens you? What is it?” 

“ Not what threatens you,” she said in contempt. 

“That is no answer.” 

“It is enough for you to know.” 


176 





TOGETHER 








He looked her hard in the eyes. ‘“ Perhaps,” he 
said in a low voice, “ I know more about you than you 
imagine I do, Geraldine—since last April.” 

She felt the blood leave her face, the tension crisp- 
ing her muscles; she sat up very straight and slender 
among the cushions and defied him. 

“What do you—think you know?” she tried to 
sneer, but her voice shook and failed. 

He said: “ I’ll tell you. For one thing, you’re play- 
ing fast and loose with Dysart. He’s a safe enough 
proposition—but what is that sort of thing going to 
arouse in you?” 

“What do you mean?” Her voice cleared with 
an immense relief. He noted it. 

“It’s making you tolerant,” he said quietly, “ fa- 
miliar with subtleties, contemptuous of standards. It’s 
rubbing the bloom off you. You let a man who is mar- 
ried come too close to you—you betray enough curios- 
ity concerning him to do it. A drifting woman does 
that sort of thing, but why do you cut your cables? 
Good Lord, Geraldine, it’s a fool business—permitting 
a man an intimacy o 

“More harmless than his wife permits you!” she 
retorted. 

* That is not true.” 

“You are supposed to lie about such things, aren’t 
you?” she said, reddening to the temples. “Oh, I am 
learning your rotten code, you see—the code of all 
these amiable people about me. You’ve done your part 
to instruct me that promiscuous caresses are men’s dis- 
traction from ennui; Rosalie evidently is in sympathy 
with that form of amusement—many men and women 
among whom I live in town seem to be quite as casual as 
youare. . . . I did have standards once, scarcely know- 

177 





THE DANGER MARK 








ing what they meant; I clung to them out of instinct. 
And when I went out into the world I found nobody 
paying any attention to them.” 

** You are wrong.” 

“No, I’m not. I go among people and see every 
standard I set up, ignored. I go to the theatre and 
see plays that embody everything I supposed was un- 
thinkable, let alone unutterable. But the actors utter 
everything, and the audience thinks everything—and 
sometimes laughs. I can’t do that—yet. But I’m pro- 
gressing.” 

“ Geraldine——” 

“Wait! . . . My friends have taught me a great 
deal during this last year—by word, precept, and ex- 
ample. Things I held in horror nobody notices enough 
to condone. Take treachery, for example. The mari- 
tal variety is all around me. Who cares, or is even curi- 
ous after an hour’s gossip has made it stale news? A 
divorce here, a divorce there—some slight curiosity to 
see who the victims may marry next time—that curios- 
ity satisfied—and so is everybody. And they go back 
to their business of money-getting and money-spending 
—and that’s what my friends have taught me. Can 
you wonder that my familiarity with it all breeds con- 
tempt enough to seek almost any amusement in sheer 
desperation—as you do?” 

**T have only one amusement,” he said. 

What? ” 

** Painting.” 

“ And your model,” she nodded with a short laugh. 
“ Don’t forget her. Your pretences are becoming tire- 
some, Duane. Your pretty model, Mrs. Dysart, poses 
less than you do.” 

Another wave of heart-sickness and anger swept 

178 


TOGETHER 








over her; she felt the tears burning close to her lids 
and turned sharply on him: 

*¢ It’s all rotten, I tell you—the whole personnel and 
routine—these people, and their petty vices and their 
idleness and their money! I—I do want to keep my- 
self above it—clean of it—but what am I to do? One 
can’t live without friends. If I don’t gamble I’m left 
alone; if I don’t flirt I’m isolated. If one stands aloof 
from everything one’s friends go elsewhere. What can 
Ido?” 

** Make decent friends. I’m going to.” 
He bent forward and struck his knee with his closed 
fist. 

*T’m going to,” he repeated. ‘“ I’ve waited as long 
as I can for you to stand by me. I could have even re- 
mained among these harmless simians if you had cared 
for me. You’re all the friend I need. But you’ve be- 
come one of them. It isn’t in you to take an intelligent 
interest in me, or in what I care for. I’ve stood this 
sort of existence long enough. Now I’m all through | 
with it.” 

She stared. Anger, astonishment, exasperation 
moved her in turn. Bitterness unlocked her lips. 

“ Are you expecting to take Mrs. Dysart with you 
to your intellectual solitude? ” 

“T would if I—if we cared for each other,” he said, 
calmly seating himself. 

She said, revolted: “‘ Can’t you even admit that you 
are in love with her? Must I confess that I could not 
avoid seeing you with her in her own room—half an 
hour since? Will that wring the truth out of you?” 

“ Oh, is that what you mean?” he said wearily. “I 
believe the door was open. . . . Well, Geraldine, what- 
ever you saw won’t harm anybody. So come to your 


179 


THE DANGER MARK 








own conclusions. . . . But I wish you were out of all 
this—with your fine insight and your clear intelligence, 
and your sweetness—oh, the chances for happiness you 
and I might have had!” 

** A slim chance with you!” she said. 

“* Every chance; perhaps the only chance we'll ever 
have. And we’ve missed it.” 

“We've missed nothing ”’—a sudden and curious 
tremor set her heart and pulses beating heavily—* I tell 
you, Duane, it doesn’t matter whom people of our sort 
marry because we'll always sicken of our bargain. 
What chance for happiness would I run with such a 
man as you? Or you with a girl like me? ” 

She lay back among the cushions, with a tired little 
laugh. “ We are like the others of our rotten sort, only 
less aged, less experienced. But we have, each of us, our 
own heritage, our own secret depravity.” She hesi- 
tated, reddening, caught his eye, stammered her sen- 
tence to a finish and flinched, crimsoning to the roots 
of her hair. 

He stood up, paced the room for a few moments, 
‘came and stood beside her. 

* Once,” he said very low, “ you admitted that you 
dare go anywhere with me. Do you remember? ” 

“é Yes.” 

“Those are your rooms, I believe,” pointing to a 
closed door far down the south corridor. 

6eé Yes.” 

“Take me there now.” 

** I—cannot do that 

“Yes, you can. You must.” 

** Now?—Duane.” 

“Yes, now—now! [I tell you our time is now if it 
ever is to be at all. Don’t waste words.” 

180 


39 





TOGETHER 








** What do you want to say to me that cannot be 
said here? ” she asked in consternation. 

He made no answer, but she found herself on her feet 
and moving slowly along beside him, his hand just 
touching her arm as guide. 

“What is it, Duane? ” she asked fearfully, as she 
laid her hand on the knob and turned to look at his 
altered face. 

He made no answer. She hesitated, shivered, opened 
the door, hesitated again, slowly crossed the threshold, 
turned and admitted him. 

The western sun flooded the silent chamber of rose 
and gray; a breeze moved the curtains, noiselessly ; the 
scent of flowers freshened the silence. 

There was a divan piled with silken cushions; he 
placed several for her; she stood irresolute for a mo- 
ment, then, with a swift, unquiet side glance at him, 
seated herself. 

‘What is it?” she asked, looking up, her face be- 
ginning to reflect the grave concern in his. 

“JT want you to marry me, Geraldine.” 

** Is—is that what 7 

“Partly. I want you to love me, too. But I'll at- 
tend to that if you’ll marry me—I’'ll guarantee that. I 
—I will guarantee—more than that.” 

She was still looking up, searching his sombre face. 
She saw the muscles tighten along the jaw; saw the 
grave lines deepening. A sort of bewildered fear 
possessed her. 

** J—am not in love with you, Duane.” She added 
hastily, “ I don’t trust you either. How could I de 

* Yes, you do trust me.” 

** After what you have done to Rosalie——” 

** You know that all is square there. Say so 

181 








199 


THE DANGER MARK 








She gazed at the floor, convinced, but not answering. 

“Do you believe I love you?” 

She shook her head, eyes still on the floor. 

“Tell me the truth! Look at me!” 

She said with an effort: “ You think you care for 
me. . . . You believe you do, I suppose——” 

“ And you believe it, too! Give me my chance— 
take your own!” 

* My chance? ”—with a flash of anger. 

** Yes; take it, and give me mine. I tell you, Geral- 
dine, we are going to need each other desperately some 
day. I need you now—to-morrow you'll need me more; 
and the day after, and after that in perilous days to 
follow our need will be the greater for these hours 
wasted—can’t you understand by this time that we’ve 
nothing to hold us steady through the sort of life we’re 
born to except—each other 

His voice suddenly broke; he dropped down on the 
couch beside her, imprisoning her clasped hands on her 
knees. His emotion, the break in his voice, excited them 
both. 

“ Are you trying to frighten me and take me by 
storm? ” she demanded, forcing a smile. ‘ What is 
the matter, Duane? What do you mean by peril? .. . 
You are scaring me——” 

“Little Geraldine—my little comrade! Can’t you 
understand? It isn’t only my selfish desire for you—it 
isn’t all for myself !—I care more for you than that. I 
love you more deeply than a mere lover! Must I 
say more to you? Must I even hurt you? Must I tell 
you what I know—of you? ” 

“* W-what? ” she asked, startled. 

He looked at her miserably. In his eyes she read a 
meaning that terrified her. 

182 





TOGETHER 








“ Duane—I don’t—understand,” she faltered. 

“Yes you do. Let’s face it now!” 

‘“‘F-face what?” Her voice was only a whisper. 

“T can tell you if you’ll love me. Will you?” 

“JT don’t understand,” she repeated in white-lipped 
distress. ‘ Why do you look at me so strangely? And 
you tell me that I—know. . . . What is it that I know? 
Couldn’t you tell me? Iam—” Her voice failed. 

** Dear—do you remember—once—last April that 
you were—ill? ... And awoke to find yourself on 
your own bed? ” 

“Duane!” It was a cry of terror. 

“Dearest! Dearest! Do you think I have not 
known—since then—what has troubled you—here——” 

She stared at him in crimsoned horror for an instant, 
then with a dry sob, bowed her head and covered her 
face with desperate hands. For a moment her whole 
body quivered, then she collapsed. On his knees beside 
her he bent and touched with trembling lips her arms, 
her knees, the slim ankles desperately interlocked, the 
tips of her white shoes. 

** Dearest,” he whispered brokenly, “I know—I 
know—believe me.. I have fought through worse, and 
won out. You said once that something had died out 
in me—while I was abroad. It did not die of itself, 
dear. But it left its mark. . . . You say self-control is 
only depravity afraid. ... That is true; but I have 
made my depravity fear me. I can do what I please 
with it now; I can tempt it, laugh at it, silence it. But 
it cost me something to make a slave of it—what you 
saw in my face is the claw-mark it left fighting me to 
the death.” 

Very straight on his knees beside her he bent again, 
pressing her rigid knees with his lips. 

18 183 


THE DANGER MARK 








“TI need you, Geraldine—I need all that is best. in 
you; you must love me—take me as an ally, dear, 
against all that is worst in you. I'll love you so con- 
fidently that we'll kill it—you and I together—my 
strength and yours, my bitter and deep understanding 
and your own sweet contempt for weakness wherever it 
may be, even in yourself.” 

He touched her; and she shuddered under the light 
caress, still bent almost double, and covering her face 
with both hands. He bent over her, one knee on the 
divan. 

* Let’s pull ourselves together and talk sense, Ger- 
aldine,” he said with an effort at lightness. 

“Don’t you remember that bully little girl who 
swung her fists in single combat and uppercut her 
brother and me whenever her sense of fairness was out- 
raged? The time has come when you, who were so fair 
to others, are going to be fair to yourself by marrying 
6-5-7 

She dropped both hands and stared at him out of 
wide, tear-wet eyes. 

“Fair to myself—at your expense, Duane? ” 

“What do you mean? I love you.” 

* Am I to let you—you marry me—knowing—what 
you know? Is that what you call my sense of fair- 
ness?’ And, as he attempted to speak: 

“ Oh, I have thought about it already !—I must have 
been conscious that this would happen some day—that 
—that I was capable of caring for you—and it alarmed 
me——”? 

“ Are you capable of loving me? ” 

* Duane, you must not ask me that! ” 

“ Tell me!” 

But she pushed him back, and they faced each other, 

184 


TOGETHER 








her hands remaining on his shoulders. She strove pite- 
ously to endure his gaze, flinched, strove to push him 
from her again—but the slender hands lay limply 
against him. So they remained, her hands at intervals 
nervously tightening and relaxing on his shoulders, her 
tearful breath coming faster, the dark eyes closing, | 
opening, turning from him, toward him, searching, now 
in his soul, now in her own, her self-command slipping 
from her. 

“Tt is cowardly in me—if I do it,” she said in the 
ghost of a voice. 

* Do what?” 

** Let you risk—what I m-might become.” 

** You little saint! ” 

“Some saints were depraved at _first—weren’t 
they? ” she said without a smile. “Oh, Duane, Duane, 
to think I could ever be here speaking to you about— 
about the horror that has happened to me—looking into 
your face and giving up my dreadful secret to you— 
laying my very soul naked before you! How can I 
look at you é 

** Because I love you. Now give me the right to 
your lips and heart! ” 

There was a long silence. Then she tried to smile. 

“ My—my lips? I—thought you took such things 
—lightl 25 

She hesitated, glanced up at him, then began to 
tremble. 

~ “Duane—if you are in earnest about our—about 
- an engagement—promise me that I may be released if 


I—think best é 














66 Why? 9 
“ J—I might fail a 
“The more need of me. But you can’t fail 4 





185 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Yes, but if I should, dear. Will you release me? 
I cannot—I will not engage myself to you—unless you 
promise to let me go if I think it best. You know what 
my word means. Give it back to me if matters go 
wrong with me. Will you?” 

“ But Iam going to marry you now!” he said with 
a short, excited laugh. 

** Now!” she repeated, appalled. 

*“ Certainly, to make sure of you. We don’t need a 
license in this State. There’s a parson at West Gate 
Village. . . . I intend to make sure of you now. You 
can keep it a secret if you like. When you return to 
town we can have everything en régle—engagement an- 
nounced, cards, church wedding, and all that. Mean- 
while I’m going to be sure of you.” 

**'W-when? ” 

* This afternoon.” 

His excitement thrilled her; a vivid colour surged 
aver neck and brow. 

* Duane, I did not dream that you cared so much, 
so truly—Oh, I—I do love you then !_T love you, 
Duane! I love you!” 

He drew her suddenly into his arms, close, closer ; 
she lifted her face; he kissed her; and she gave him her 
heart with a sob. 

“You will wait for m-me, won’t you?” she stam- 
mered, striving to keep her reason through the delicious 
tumult that swept her senses. ‘ Before I m-marry you 
I must be quite certain that you take no risk” 

She looked up into his steady eyes; a passion of ten- 
derness overwhelmed her, and her locked arms tightened 
around his neck. 

“Oh,” she whispered, “ you are the boy I loved so 
long, so long ago—my comrade Duane—my own little 

186 


TOGETHER 








boy! How was I to know I loved you this way, too? 
How could I understand!” 

Already the glamour of the past was transfiguring 
the man for her, changing him back into the lad she had 
ruled so long ago, glorifying him—drawing them to- 
gether into that golden age where her ears already 
caught the far cries and laughter of the past. 

Now, her arms around him, she looked at him and 
looked at him as though she had not set eyes on him 
since then. 

“Of course, I love you,” she said impatiently, as 
though surprised and hurt that he or she had ever 
doubted it. ‘ You always were mine; you are mine! 
Nobody else could ever have had you—no matter what 


you did—or what I did. . . . And nobody except you 
could ever, ever have had me. That is perfectly plain 
now. ... Oh, you—you darling ”—she murmured, 


drawing his face against hers. Tears sprang to her 
brown eyes; her mouth quivered. 

“You will love me, won’t you? Because I’m going 
quite mad about you, Duane. . . . I don’t think I know 
just what I’m saying—or what I’m doing.” 

She drew him closer; he caught her, crushing her in 
his arms, and she yielded, clung to him for a moment, 
drew back in flushed resistance, still bewildered by her 
own passion. Then, into her eyes came that divine 
beauty which comes but once on earth—innocence awak- 
ened ; and the white lids drooped a little, and the mouth 
quivered, surrendering with a sigh. 

“You never have, never could love any other man? 
Say it. I know it, but—say it, sweetheart!” 

_“ Only you, Duane.” 

* Are you happy? ” 

187 


THE DANGER MARK 








**T am in heaven.” 

She closed her eyes—opening them almost immedi- 
ately and passing one hand across his face as though 
afraid he might have vanished. 

“You are there yet,” she murmured with a faint 
smile. 

“So are you,” he whispered, laughing—* my little 
dream girl—my little brown-eyed, brown-haired, long- 
legged, swift-running, hard-hitting i 

“Oh, do you remember that dreadful blow I gave 
you when we were sparring in the library? Did it hurt 
you, my darling—I was sure it did, but you never would 
admit it. Tell me now,” she coaxed, adorable in her 
penitence. 

** Well—yes, it did.” He laughed under his breath 
—“TJT don’t mind telling you now that it fractured the 
bridge of my nose.” 

“ What!”—in horror. “That perfectly delicious 
straight nose of yours!” 

“Oh, I had it fixed,” he said, laughing. “If you 
deal me no more vital blows than that I'll never 
mind fg 3 

** I—deal you a—a blow, Duane! I!” 

“For instance, by not marrying me_ right 
away 5 

** Dear—lI can’t.” 

The smile had died out in her eyes and on her lips. 

“ You know I can’t, don’t you?” she said tenderly. 
* You know I’ve got to be fair to you.” Her face grew 
graver. “ Dear—when I stop and try to think—it dis- 
mays me to understand how much in love with you I am. 
- . - Because it is too soon. . . . It would be safer to 
wait before I start to love you—this way. There is a 
cowardly streak in me—a weak streak #6 


188 














TOGETHER 








** What blessed nonsense you do talk, don’t you? ” 

* No, dear.” 

She moved slightly toward him, settling close, as 
though within the circle of his arms lay some occult pro- 
tection. 

For a while she lay very close to him, her pale face 
pressed against his shoulder, brown eyes remote. 
Neither spoke. After a long time she laid her hands 
on his arms, gently disengaging them, and, freeing her- 
self, sprang to her feet. A new, lithe and lovely dignity 
seemed to possess her—an exquisite, graceful, indefin- 
able something which lent a hint of splendour to her 
as she turned and looked down at him. 

Then, mischievously tender, she stooped and touched 
her childish mouth to his—her cheek, her throat, her 
hair, her lids, her hands, in turn all brushed his lips with 
fragrance—the very ghost of contact, the exquisite 
mockery of caress. 

“Tf you don’t go at once,” she murmured, “ I'll 
never let you go at all. Wait—let me see if anybody is 
in the corridor 

She opened the door and looked out. 

** Not a soul,” she whispered, “ our reputations are 
still intact. Good-bye—I’ll put on a fresh gown and 
meet you in ten minutes! . . . Where? Oh, anywhere 
—anywhere, Duane. The Lake. Oh, that is too far 
away! Wait here on the stairs for me—that isn’t so 
far away—yjust sit on the stairs until I come. Do you 
promise? Truly? Oh, you angel boy! . . . Yes—but 
only one more, then—to be quite sure that you won’t 
forget to wait on the stairs for me. . . .” 





CHAPTER VIII 
AN AFTERGLOW 


DeE.LiciousLy weary, every fibre in her throbbing 
with physical fatigue, she had nevertheless found it im- 
possible to sleep. 

The vivid memory of Duane holding her in his arms, 
while she gave her heart to him with her lips, left her 
tremulous and confused by emotions of which she yet 
knew little. 

Toward dawn a fever of unrest drove her from her 
hot, crushed pillows to the cool of the open casements. 
The morning was dark and very still; no breeze stirred ; 
a few big, widely scattered stars watched her. For a 
long while she stood there trying to quiet the rapid 
pulse and fast breathing; and at length, with an ex- 
cited little laugh, she sank down among the cushions on 
the window-seat and lay back very still, her head, with 
its glossy, disordered hair, cradled in her arms. 

“Is this love?” she said to herself. “Is this what 
it is doing to me? Am I never again going to sleep? ” 

But she could not lie still; her restless hands began 
groping about in the darkness, and presently the fire 
from a cigarette glimmered red. 

She remained quiet for a few moments, elbow among 
the pillows, cheek on hand, watching the misty spirals 
float through the open window. After a while she sat 
up nervously and tossed the cigarette from her. Like a 
falling star the spark whirled earthward in a wide 

190 


AN AFTERGLOW 








curve, glowed for a few seconds on the lawn below, and 
slowly died out. 

Then an inexplicable thing occurred. Unthink- 
ingly she had turned over and extended her arm, 
searching in the darkness behind her. There came a 
tinkle, a vague violet perfume, and the starlight fell on 
her clustering hair and throat as she lifted and drained 
the brimming glass. 

Suddenly she stood up; the frail, cr yeise glass fell 
from her fingers, splintering on the stone sill; and with 
a quick, frightened intake of breath, lips still wet and 
scented, and the fire of it already stealing through her 
veins, she awoke to stunned comprehension of what she 
had done. 

For a moment only startled astonishment dominated 
her. That she could have done this thing so instinct- 
ively and without forethought or imtent, seemed impos- 
sible. She bowed her head in her hands, striving des- 
perately to recollect the circumstances; she sprang to 
her feet and paced the darkened room, trying to under- 
stand. A terrified and childish surprise possessed her, 
which changed slowly to anger and impatience as she 
began to realise the subtle treachery that habit had 
practised on her—so stealthy is habit, betraying the 
body unawares. 

Overwhelmed with consternation, she seated herself 
to consider the circumstances ; little flashes of alarm as- 
sisted her. Then a sort of delicate madness took pos- 
session of her, deafening her ears to the voice of fear. 
She refused to be afraid. 

As she sat there, both hands unconsciously indent- 
ing her breast, the clamour and tumult of her senses 
_ drowned the voice within. 

No, she would not be afraid !—though the burning 
14 191 


THE DANGER MARK 








perfume was mounting to her head with every breath 
and the glow grew steadily in her body, creeping from 
vein to vein. No, she would not be afraid. It could 
never happen again. She would be on her guard after 
this. . . . Besides, the forgetfulness had been so mo- 
mentary, the imprudence so very slight... and it 
had helped her, too—it was already making her sleepy 

. and she had needed something to quiet her— 
needed sleep... . 

After a long while she turned languidly and picked 
up the little crystal flask from the dresser—an antique 
bit of glass which Rosalie had given her. 

Dawn whitened the edges of the sky; the birds were 
becoming very noisy. She lifted the curiously cut 
relic; an imprisoned fluid glimmered with pale-violet 
light—some scented French distillation which Rosalie 
affected beeause nobody else had ever heard of it—an 
aromatic, fiery essence, faintly perfumed. 

For a moment the girl gazed at it curiously. Then, 
on deliberate impulse, she filled another glass. 

* One thing is certain,” she said to herself; “ if I 
am capable of controlling myself at all, I must begin 
now. If I should touch this it would be excess. . . . I 
would like to, but ”—she flung the contents from the 
window—* I won’t. And that is the way I am able to 
control myself.” 

She smiled, set the glass aside, and raised her eyes 
to the paling stars. When at last she stretched herself 
out on the bed, dawn was already lighting. the room, 
but she fell asleep at once. 

It was a flushed and rather heavy slumber, not per- 
fectly natural; and when Kathleen entered at nine 
o’clock, followed by Geraldine’s maid with the breakfast- 
tray, the girl still lay with face buried in her hair, 

192 


AN AFTERGLOW 








breathing deeply and irregularly, her lashes wet with 
tears. 

The maid retired; Kathleen bent low over the fev- 
erishly parted lips, kissed them, hesitated, drew back 
sharply, and cast a rapid glance around the room. 
Then she went over to the dressing-table and lifted 
Rosalie’s antique flagon; and set it back slowly, as the 
girl turned her face on the pillow and opened her eyes. 

“Ts that you, Kathleen? ” 

“Yes, dear.” 

For a few seconds she lay quite motionless, then, 
rising’ on one elbow, she passed the backs of her fingers 
across her lids, laughed sleepily, and straightened up, 
freeing her eyes from the confusion of her hair. 

“I’ve had horrid dreams. I’ve been crying in my 
sleep. Come here,” she said, stretching out her arms, 
and Kathleen went slowly. 

The girl pulled her head down, linking both arms 
around her neck: 

“You darling, can you ever guess what siewele 
happened to me yesterday? ” 

§ No... aoWihatPe? 

““T promised to marry Duane Mallett!” 

There was no reply. The girl clung to her ex- 
citedly, burying her face against Kathleen’s cheek, 
then released her with a laugh, and saw her face— 
saw the sorrowful amazement in it, the pain. » 

* Kathleen!” she exclaimed, startled, “ what is the 
matter? ” 

Mrs. Severn dropped down on the bed’s edge, her 
hands loosely clasped. Geraldine’s brown eyes searched 
hers in hurt astonishment. 

“ Aren’t you glad for me, Kathleen? What is it? 
Why do you—” And all at once she divined, and the 

193 


THE DANGER MARK 








hot colour stained her from brow to throat. Kathleen 
bent forward swiftly and caught her in her arms with 
a smothered cry; but the girl freed herself and leaned 
back, breathing fast. 

“ Duane knows about me,” she said. “I told him.” 

** He knew before you told him, my darling.” 

Another wave of scarlet swept Geraldine’s face. 

“ That is true. . . . He found out—last April. .. . 
But he and I are not afraid. I promised him—” And 
her voice failed as the memory of the night’s indulgence 
flashed in her brain. 

Kathleen began: “ You promised me, too—” And 
her voice also failed. 

There was a silence; the girl’s eyes turned miser- 
ably toward the dressing-table, closed with a slow, 
inward breath which ended like a sob; and again she 
was in Kathleen’s arms—struggled from them only to 
drop her head on Kathleen’s knees and lie, tense face 
hidden, both hands clenched. The wave of grief and 
shame swept her and passed. 

After a while she spoke in a hard little voice: 

“It is foolish to say I cannot control myself... . 
I did not think what I was doing last night—that was 
all. Duane knows my danger—tendency, I mean. He 
isn’t worried; he knows that I can take care of my- 
self 46 

“Don’t marry him until you know you can.” 

* But I am perfectly certain of myself now! ” 

“Only prove it, darling. Be frank with me. Who 
in the world loves you as I do, Geraldine? Who desires 
happiness for you as I do? What have I in life be- 
sides you and Scott? . . . And lately, dearest—I must 
speak as I feel—something—some indefinable constraint 


seems to have grown between you and me—something— 
194 





AN AFTERGLOW 








I don’t exactly know what—that threatens our intimate 
understanding———” : 

** No, there is nothing! ” 

“Be honest with me, dear. What is it?” 

The girl lay silent for a while, then: 

“TI don’t know myself. I have been—worried. It 
may have been that.” 

** Worried about yourself, you poor lamb? ”: 

* A little. . . . And a little about Duane.” 

* But, darling, if Duane loves you, that is all 
cleared up, isn’t it? ” 

“Yes. ... But for a long time he and Rosalie 
made me perfectly wretched. . . . I didn’t know I was 
in love with him, either. . . . And I couldn’t sleep very 
much, and I—I simply couldn’t tell you how unhappy 
they were making me—and I—sometimes—now and 
then—in fact, very often, I—formed the custom of— 
doing what I ought not to have done—to steady my 
nerves—in fact, I simply let myself go—badly.” 

“Oh, my darling! My darling! Couldn’t you have 
told me—let me sit with you, talk, read to you—love 
you to sleep? Why did you do this, Geraldine? ” 

** Nothing—very disgraceful—ever happened. It 
only helped me to sleep when I was excited and miser- 
able. . . . I—I didn’t care what I did—Duane and 
Rosalie made me so wretched. And there seemed no use 
in my trying to be different from others, and I thought 
I might as well be as rotten as everybody. But I tried 
and couldn’t—I tried, for instance, to misbehave with 
Jack Dysart, but I couldn’t—and I only hated myself 
and him and Rosalie and Duane!” 

She sat up, flushed, dishevelled, lips quivering. “I 
want to confess! I[’ve been horribly depraved for a 
week! I gambled with the Pink ’uns and swore as fash- 

— (195 





THE DANGER MARK 








ionably as I knew how! I scorched my tongue with 
cigarettes; I sat in Bunny Gray’s room with the door 
bolted and let him teach me how to make silver fizzes 
and Chinese juleps out of Rose wine and saki! I let 
Jack Dysart retain my hand—and try to kiss me— 
several times sd 

* Geraldine! ” 

“J did. I wanted to be horrid.” 

She sat there breathing fast, her big brown eyes 
looking defiantly at Kathleen, but the child’s mouth 
quivered beyond control and the nervous hands tight- 
ened and relaxed. 

** How bad have I been, Kathleen? It sounds pretty 
bad to tell it. But Muriel says ‘damn!’ and Rosalie 
says ‘the devil!’ and when anything goes wrong and 
I say, ‘Oh, fluff!’ I mean swearing, so I thought I’d 
do it. . . . And almost every woman I know smokes 
and has her favourite cocktail, and they all bet and 
play for stakes; and from what I hear talked about, 
nobody’s conduct is modified because anybody happens 
to be married. 4 

The horror in Kathleen’s blue eyes checked her; she 
hid her face in her hands for a moment, then flung 
out her arms and crushed Kathleen to her breast. 

“Tm going to tell Duane how I’ve behaved. I 
couldn’t rest until he knows the very worst . .. how 
fearfully common and bad a girl I can be. Darling, 
don’t break down. I don’t want to go any closer to 
the danger line than I’ve been. And, oh, I’m so 
ashamed, so humiliated—I—I wish I could go to Duane 
as—as clean and sweet and innocent as he would have 
me. For he is the dearest boy—and I love him so, 
Kathleen. I’m so silly about him. . . . I’ve got to tell 
him how I behaved, haven’t I?” 

196 








YOoM B L0F poaridap A] quiroy uv0q  9AT jSSofuod OF JUBM JT,,, 


. 
ccc ll 








AN AFTERGLOW 








““ Are—are you going to?” 

“Of course I am!” ... She drew away and sat 
up very straight in bed, serious, sombre-eyed, hands 
clasped tightly about her knees. 

“Do you know,” she said, as though to herself, 
“it is curious that a trivial desire for anything like 
that ’—pointing to Rosalie’s gift—‘‘ should make me 
restless—annoy me, cause me discomfort. I can’t un- 
derstand why it should actually torment me. It really 
does, sometimes.”” 

“That is the terrible part of it,’ faltered Kath- 
leen. “For God’s sake, keep clear of anything with 
even the faintest odour of alcohol about it.... 
Where did you find that cut-glass thing? ” 

** Rosalie gave it to me.” 

“What is in it?” 

“IT don’t know—créme de something or other.” 

Kathleen took the girl’s tightly clasped hands in 
hers: 

** Geraldine, you’ve got to be square to Duane. 
You can’t marry him until you cleanse yourself, until 
you scour yourself free of this terrible inclination for 
stimulants.” 

“* H-how can I? I don’t intend, ever again, to——” 

“Prove it then. Let sufficient time elapse——” 

**How long? A—year?” 

“ Dear, if you will show a clean record of self-con- 
trol for a year I ask no more. It ought not to be diffi- 
cult for you to dominate this silly weakness. Your 
will-power is scarcely tainted. What fills me with fear 
is this habit you have formed of caressing danger— 
this childish trifling with something which is still asleep 
i you—with all that is weak and ignoble. It is there 
—it is in all of us—in you, too. Don’t rouse it; it is 


197 


THE DANGER MARK 








still asleep — merely a little restless in its slumber 
—but, oh, Geraldine! Geraldine!—if you ever awake 
it!—if you ever arouse it to its full, fierce conscious- 
ness 3 

“JT won’t,” said the girl hastily. “Oh, I won’t, I 
won’t, Kathleen, darling. ‘I do know it’s in me—I feel 
that if I ever let myself go I could be reckless and 
wicked. But truly, truly, I won’t. I—darling, you 
mustn’t cry—please, don’t—because you are making me 
cry. I cried in my sleep, too. . . . I ought to be very 
happy—” She forced a laugh through the bright 
tears fringing her lashes, bent forward swiftly, kissed 
Kathleen, and sprang from the bed. 

**T want my bath and breakfast!” she cried. “ If 
I’m to be a Louis XVI doll this week, it’s time my 
face was washed and my sawdust reinforced. Do fix 
my tray, dear, while I’m in the bath—and ring for my 
maid. . . . And when you go down you may tell Duane 
to wait for me on the stairs. It’s good discipline; he’ll 
find it stupid because Ill be a long time—but, oh, 
Kathleen, it is perfectly heavenly to bully him!” 





Later she sent a note to him by her maid: 


“To THE OnLy Man In THE Wor Lp, 
On THE Srarrs. 

“ Patient Sir: If you will go to the large beech- 
tree beyond Hurryon Gate and busy yourself by carv- 
ing upon it certain initials intertwined within the cir- 
cumscribed. outlines of a symbol popularly supposed to 
represent a human heart, your industry will be pres- 
ently and miraculously rewarded by the apparition of 
her who presumably occupies no inconsiderable place 
in your affections.” 


198 


AN AFTERGLOW 








At the Hurryon Gate Duane found Rosalie trying 
to unlock it, a dainty, smiling Rosalie, fresh as a blos- 
som, and absurdly like a schoolgirl with her low-cut 
collar, snowy neck, and the thick braid of hair. Under 
her arm she carried her bathing-dress. 

“I’m going for a swim; I nearly perished with the 
heat last night. . . . Did you sleep well, Duane? ” 

** Rather well.” 

She hesitated, looked up: “ Are you coming with 
me?” 

*“ Lhave aii appointment.” 

“Oh! ... . Are you.going to let me go alone? ” 

~He laughed: “ I’ve no choice; I really have an ap- 
Sonemedt this morning.” 

She inspected him, drew a step nearer, laid both 
hands lightly on his shoulders. 

“Duane, dear,” she said, “ are you really going to 
let me drift past you out to sea—after all?” 

** What else can I do? Besides, you are not going 
to drift.” 

“Yes, I am. You were very nice to me yesterday.” 

“It was you who were very sweet to me. .. . But 
I told you how matters stand. You care for your hus- 
band.” 

“Yes, you did tell me. But it is not true. I 
thought about it all night long; I find that I do not 
care for him—as you told me I did.” 

He said, smiling: “ Nor do you really care for 
me.” 

“I could care.” 

Her hands still lay lightly on his shoulders; he 
smilingly disengaged them, saluted the finger tips, and 
swung them free. 

“ No, you couldn’t,” he said—* nor could I.” 


199 


THE DANGER MARK 








She clasped her hands behind her, confronting him 
with that gaily audacious allure which he knew so well: 

* Does a man really care whether or not he is in 
love with a woman before he makes love to her? ” 

“Do you want an honest answer? ” 

** Please.” 

** Well, then—if she is sufficiently attractive, a man 
doesn’t usually care.” 

** Am I sufficiently attractive? ” 

6eé Yes.” 

“'Then—why do you hesitate? . ..r I know, the 
rules of the game. When_one wearjes, the « other must 
pretend _t to... . And then they_make their r adieux _yery 
amitably. iy "fant that a man’s ideal of an affair with 
a pretty wena? ‘! 

He laughed: “I suppose so.” 

So do I. You are no novice, are you—as I am? ” 

* Are you a novice, Rosalie? ” 

* Yes, Iam. You probably don’t believe it. It is 
absurd, isn’t it, considering these lonely years—con- 
sidering what he has done—that I havent anything 
ia which to reproach myself.” 

‘It is very admirable,” he said. 

“Oh, yes, theoretically. I was too fastidious—per- 
haps a little bit too decent. It’s curious how inculcated 
morals and early precepts make mountains out of what 
is really very simple travelling. If a woman ceases to 
love her husband, she is going to miss too much in 
life if she’s afraid to love anybody else. . . . I suppose 
T have been afraid.” 

“It’s rather a wholesome sort of fear,” he said. 

“Wholesome as breakfast-food. I hate it. Be- 
sides, the fear doesn’t exist any more,” shaking her 
head. “Like the pretty girls in a very popular and 

200 


AN AFTERGLOW 








profoundly philosophical entertainment, I’ve simply got 
to love somebody ”—she smiled at him—* and I’d pre- 
fer to fall honestly and disgracefully in love with you— 
if you’d give me the opportunity.” There was a pause. 
“ Otherwise,”’ she concluded, “I shall content myself 
with doing a mischief to your sex where I can. I give 
you the choice, Duane—I give you the disposal of my- 
self. Am I to love—you?—or be loved by God knows 
whom—and make him suffer for it”—-she set her 
little even teeth—“ and pay back to men what man 
has done to me?” 

**' Nonsense,” he said good-humouredly; “ isn’t 
there anything except playing at love that counts in 
the world? ” 

* Nothing counts without it. I’ve learned that 
much.” 

** Some people have done pretty well without it.” 

“You haven’t. You might have been a really good 
painter if you cared for a woman who cared for you. 
There’s no tenderness in your work; it’s all technique 
and biceps.” 

He said gravely: “ You are right.” 

“Am I? ... Do you think you could try to care 
for me—even for that reason, Duane—to become a bet- 
ter painter? ” 

“T’m afraid not,” he said pleasantly. 

There was a silence; her expression changed subtly, 
then the colour came back and she smiled and nodded 
adieu. 

“ Good-bye,” she said; “I’m going to get into all 
sorts of mischief. The black flag is hoisted. Mal- 
heur aux hommes!” 

“'There’s one now,” said Duane, laughing as De- 
lancy Grandcourt’s bulk appeared among the trees 

201 


THE DANGER MARK 








along Hurryon Water. ‘ Lord! what a bungler he is 
on a trout-stream! ” 

Rosalie turned and gazed at the big, clumsy young 
man who was fishing with earnestness and method every 
unlikely pool in sight. 

* Does he belong to anybody?” she asked, consid- 
ering him. “I want to do real damage. He is usually 
at Geraldine’s heels, isn’t he? ” 

“Oh, let him alone,” said Duane; “ he’s an awfully 
decent fellow. If a man of that slow, plodding, faithful 
species ever is thoroughly aroused by a woman, it will 
bea lively day for his tormentor.” 

Rosalie’s blue eyes sparkled: ‘‘ Will it? ” 

“Yes, it will. You had better not play hob with 
Delancy. Are you intending to? ” 

“TI don’t know. Look at the man! That’s the 
fourth time he’s landed his line in a bush! He’ll fall 
into that pool if he’s not—mercy !—there he goes! Did 
you ever see such a genius for clumsiness? ” 

She was moving forward through the trees as she 
spoke; Duane called after her in a warning voice: 

“Don’t try to do anything to disturb him. It’s 
not good sport; he’s a mighty decent sort, I tell you.” 

“I won’t play any tricks on your good young 
man,” she said with a shrug of contempt, and saun- 
tered off toward the Gray Water. Her path, however, 
crossed Grandcourt’s, and as she stepped upon the foot- 
bridge she glanced down, where, wading gingerly in 
mid-stream, Delancy floundered and panted and barely 
contrived to maintain a precarious footing, while send- 
ing his flies sprawling down the rapids. 

“ Good-morning,” she nodded, as he caught sight 
of her. He attempted to take off his cap, slipped, wal- 
lowed, and recovered his balance by miracle alone. 

202 


AN AFTERGLOW 








* There’s a thumping big trout under that bridge,” 
he informed her eagerly; “he ran downstream just 
now, but I can’t seem to raise him.” 

“You splash too much. You’d probably raise him 
if you raised less of something else.” 

“Ts that it?” he inquired innocently. “I try not 
to, but I generally manage to raise hell with every 
pool before I get a chance to fish it. Dll show you just 
where he lies. Watch!” 

His cast of flies whistled wildly ; there was a quick 
pang of pain in her shoulder and she gave a frightened 
cry. 

“Good Lord! Have I got you?” he exclaimed, 
aghast. 

“You certainly have,” she retorted, exasperated, 
“and you had better come up and get this hook out! 
You’ll need it if you want to fish any more.” 

Dripping and horrified, he scrambled up the bank 
to the footbridge; she flinched, but made no sound, as 
he freed her from the hook; a red stain appeared on 
the sleeve of her waist, above the elbow. 

“Tt’s fortunate that it was a b-barbless hook,” he 
stammered, horribly embarrassed and contemplating 
with dismay the damage he had accomplished; “ other- 
wise,” he added, “we would have had to cut out the 
hook. We’re rather lucky, I think. Is it very pain- 
ful? ” 

“ Sufficiently,” she said, disgusted. ‘“ But I sup- 
pose this sort of thing is nothing unusual for you.” 

“T’ve hooked one or two people,” he admitted, red- 
dening. ‘I suppose you won’t bother to forgive me, 
but I’m terribly sorry. If you’ll let me put a little mud 
on it ” 

She disdained to reply. He hovered about her, 

203 





THE DANGER MARK 








clumsily solicitous, and whichever way she turned, he 
managed to get underfoot, until, thoroughly vexed, she 
stood stock-still and opened her arms with a hopeless 
gesture: 

“What are you trying to do, Delancy? Do you 
want to embrace me? I wish you wouldn’t leap about 
me like a great Dane puppy!” 

The red surged up into his face anew: 

“TI beg your pardon,” he said. “I’m very sorry.” 

She looked at him curiously: “I beg yours—you 
big, silly boy. Don’t blush at me. Great Danes are 
exceedingly desirable property, you know. ... Did 
you wish to be forgiven for anything? What on earth 
are you doing with that horrid fistful of muck? ” 

“TI only want to put some mud on that wound, if 
you'll let me. It’s good for hornet stings ‘ 

She laughed and backed away: “Do you believe 
there is any virtue in mud, Delancy?—good, deep mire 
—when one is bruised and sore and lonely and desper- 
ate? Oh, don’t try to understand—what a funny, con- 
fused, stupid way you have of looking at me! [I re- 
member you used to look at me that way sometimes— 
oh, long ago—before I was married, I think.” 

The heavy colour which surged so readily to his 
temples began to amuse her; she leaned back against 
the bridge rail and contemplated him with smiling dis- 
dain. 

“Do you know,” she said, “ years ago, I had a 
slight, healthy suspicion that you were on the verge of 
falling in love with me.” 

He tried to smile, but the colour died out in his 
face. 

“Yes, I was on the verge,” he contrived to answer. 

“Why didn’t you fall over? ” 

204 





AN AFTERGLOW 








“IT suppose it was because you married Jack Dy- 
sart,” he said simply. 

* Was that all?” 

“ All?” He thought he perceived the jest, and 
managed to laugh again. 

*“* Really, I am perfectly serious,” repeated Rosalie. 
“Was that all that prevented you from falling in love 
‘with me—because I was married? ” 

“J think so,” he said. ‘*Wasn’t it reason 
enough? ” 

“*T didn’t know it was enough for a man. I don’t 
believe I know exactly how men consider such matters. 
. . . You’ve managed to hook that fly into my gown 
again! And now you’ve torn the skirt hopelessly! 
What a devastating sort of creature you are, Delancy! 
You used to step on my slippers at dancing school, 
and, oh, Heaven! how I hated you. . .. Where are 
you going?” for he had begun to walk away, reeling 
in his wet line as he moved, his grave, highly coloured 
face lowered, troubled eyes intent on what he was 
doing. 

When she spoke, he halted and raised his head, and 
she saw the muscles flexed under the bronze skin of the 
jaw—saw the lines of pain appear where his mouth 
tightened. All of the clumsy boy in him had van- 
ished ; she had never troubled herself to look at him very | 
closely, and it surprised her to see how worn his face 
really was under the eyes and cheek-bones—really sur- 
prised her that there was much of dignity, even of a cer- 
tain nobility, in his quiet gaze. 

““T asked you where you are going?” she repeated 
with a faint smile. 

** Nowhere in particular.” 

“ But you are going somewhere, I suppose.” 

205 


b] 


THE DANGER MARK 








‘* T suppose so.” 

“In my direction? ” 

“T think not.” 

“That is very rude of you, Delancy—when you 
don’t even know where my direction lies. Do you 
think,” she demanded, amused, “ that it is particularly 
civil of a man to terminate an interview with a woman 
before she offers him his congé? ” 

He finished reeling in his line, hooked the drop-fly 
into the reel-guide, shifted his creel, buttoned on the 
landing-net, and quietly turned around and inspected 
Mrs. Dysart. 

“I want to tell you something,” he said. “I have 
never, even as a boy, had from you a single word which 
did not in some vague manner convey a hint of your 
contempt for me. Do you realise that? ” 

** W-what!” she faltered, bewildered. 

“I don’t suppose you do realise it: People gener- 
ally feel toward me as you feel; it has always been the 
fashion to tolerate me. It is a legend that I am thick- 
skinned and stupidly slow to take offence. I am not of- 
fended now. . . . Because I could not be with you. .. . 
But I am tired of it, and I thought it better that you 
should know it—after all these years.” 

Utterly confounded, she leaned back, both hands 
tightening on the hand-rail behind her, and as she com- 
prehended the passionless reproof, a stinging flush 
deepened over her pretty face. 

“Had you anything else to say to me? ” he asked, 
without embarrassment. 

6“ N-no.”’ 

* Then may I take my departure? ” 

She lifted her startled blue eyes and regarded him’ 
with a new and intense curiosity. 

206 


AN AFTERGLOW 








‘** Have I, by my manner or speech, ever really hurt 
you?” she asked. “ Because I haven’t meant to.” 

He started to reply, hesitated, shook his head, and 
his pleasant, kindly smile fascinated her. 

“You haven’t intended to,” he said. It’s all right, 
Rosalie——” 

** But—have I been horrid and disagreeable? Tell 
me.” 

In his troubled eyes she could see he was still search- 
ing to excuse her; slowly she began to recognise the 
sensitive simplicity of the man, the innate courtesy so 
out of harmony with her experience among men. What, 
after all, was there about him that a woman should treat 
with scant consideration, impatience, the toleration of 
contempt? His clumsy manner? His awkwardness? 
His very slowness to exact anything for himself? Or 
had it been the half-sneering, half-humourous attitude 
of her husband toward him which had insensibly col- 
oured her attitude? 

She had known Delancy Grandcourt all her life— 
that is, she had neglected to know him, if this brief 
revelation of himself warranted the curiosity and inter- 
est now stirring her. 

** Were you really ever in love with me? ” she asked, 
so frankly that the painful colour rose to his hair again, 
and he stood silent, head lowered, like a guilty boy 
caught in his sins. 

** But—good heavens!” she exclaimed with an un- 
easy little laugh, “ there’s nothing to be ashamed of in 
it! I’m not laughing at you, Delancy; I am thinking 
about it with—with a certain re—” She was going to 
say regret, but she substituted “ respect,” and, rather 
surprised at her own seriousness, she fell silent, her un- 
certain gaze continually reverting to him. 

207 


THE DANGER MARK 








She had never before noticed how tall and well-built 
he was, in spite of the awkwardness with which he 
moved—a great, big powerful machine, continually 
checked and halted, as though by some fear that his own 
power might break loose and smash things. That seemed 
to be the root of his awkwardness—unskilful self-con- 
trol—a vague consciousness of the latent strength of 
limb and body and will, which habit alone controlled, and 
controlled unskilfully. 

She had never before known a man resembling this 
new revelation of Grandcourt. Without considering or 
understanding why, she began to experience an agree- 
able sense of restfulness and security in the silence which 
endured between them. He stood full in the sunlight, 
very deeply preoccupied with the contents of his fly- 
book; she leaned back on the sun-scorched railing of 
the bridge, bathing-suit tucked under one arm, listening 
to the melody of the rushing stream below. It seemed 
almost like the intimacy of old friendship, this quiet in- 
terval in the sun, with the moving shadows of leaves at 
their feet and the music of the water in their ears—a 
silence unbroken save by that, and the pure, sweet call- 
note of some woodland bird from the thickets beyond. 

* What fly are you trying?” she asked, dreamily 
conscious of the undisturbed accord. 

* 'Wood-ibis—do you think they might come to it? ” 
he asked so naturally that a sudden glow of confidence 
in him, in the sunlit world around her, warmed her. 

* Let me look at your book? ” 

He brought it. Together they fumbled the bril- 
liantly patterned aluminum leaves, fumbling with tufted 
silks and feathers, until she untangled a most allur- 
ingly constructed fly and drew it out, presenting it to 
him between forefinger and thumb. 

208 


AN AFTERGLOW 








** Shall we try it?” 

** Certainly,” he said. 

Duane, carving hieroglyphics on the bark of the big 
beech, raised his head and looked after them. 

“'That’s a pretty low trick,” he said to himself, as 
they sauntered away toward the Gray Water. And he 
scowled in silence and continued his carving. 


CHAPTER IX 
CONFESSION 


So many guests were arriving from Iron Hill, 
Cloudy Mountain, and West Gate Village that the ca- 
pacity of Roya-Neh was overtaxed. Room had to be 
made somehow; Geraldine and Naida Mallett doubled 
up; twin beds were installed for Dysart and Bunny 
Gray; Rosalie took in Sylvia Quest with a shrug, dis- 
daining any emotion, even curiosity, concerning the 
motherless girl whose imprudences with Jack Dysart 
had furnished gossip sufficient to last over from the 
_ winter. 

The Tappans appeared with their guests, old Tap- 
pan grimmer, rustier, gaunter than usual; his son and 
heir, Peter—he of the rambling and casual legs—more 
genial, more futile, more acquiescent than ever. The. 
Crays, Beekmans, Ellises, and Grandcourts arrived ; 
Catharine Grandcourt shared Mrs. Severn’s room; Scott 
Seagrave went to quarters at the West Gate, and Duane 
was driven forth and a cot-bed set up for him in his 
studio at Hurryon Lodge. 

The lawns and terraces of Roya-Neh were swarm- 
ing with eager, laughing young people; white skirts 
fluttered everywhere in the sun; tennis-courts and lake 
echoed with the gay tumult, motors tooted, smart horses 
and showy traps were constantly drawing up or driving 
off; an army of men from West Gate Village were busy 
stringing lanterns all over the grounds, pitching pavil- 

210 


CONFESSION 








ions in the glade beyond Hurryon Gate, and decorating 
everything with ribbons, until Duane suggested to Scott 
that they tie silk bows on the wild squirrels, as every- 
thing ought to be as Louis XVI as possible. He 
himself did actually so adorn several respectable 
Shanghai hens which he caught at their oviparous _ 
duties, and the spectacle left Kathleen weak with 
laughter. 

As for Duane, he suddenly seemed to have grown 
years younger. All that was careless, inconsequential, 
irresponsible, seemed to have disappeared in a single 
night, leaving a fresh, boyish enthusiasm quite free from 
surface cynicism—quite innocent of the easy, amused 
mockery which had characterised him. The subtle ele- 
ment of self-consciousness had disappeared, too. If it 
had remained unnoticed, even undetected before, now 
its absence was noticeable, for there was no longer any 
attitude about him, no policy to sustain, nothing of that 
humourous, bantering sophistication which ignores con- 
ventionality. For it is always a conscious effort to 
ignore it, an attitude to disregard what custom has 
sanctioned. 

Kathleen had never realised what a really sweet and 
charming fellow he was until that morning, when he 
took her aside and told her of his engagement. 

“Do you know,” he said, “ it is as though life had 
stopped for me many years ago when Geraldine and I 
were playmates; it’s exactly as though all the interval 
of years in between counted less than a dream, and now, 
at last, I am awake and taking up real life again. . . . 
You see, Kathleen, as a matter of fact, I’m incomplete 
by myself. I’m only half of a suit of clothes; Geraldine 
always wore the rest of me.” 

* However,” said Kathleen mischievously, ‘ you’ve 

211 


THE DANGER MARK 








been very tireless in trying on, they say. It’s astonish- 
ing you never found a good fit *” 

“That was all part of the dream interval,” he in- 
terrupted. a little out of countenance, “ everything was 
absurdly unreal. Are you going to be nice to me, 
Kathleen? ” 

** Of course I am, you blessed boy!” she said, taking 
him in her vigorous young arms and kissing him 
squarely and thoroughly. Then she held him at arms’ 
length and looked him very gravely in the eyes: 

* Love her a great deal, Duane,” she said in a low 
voice; “* she needs it.” 

“TI could not help doing it.” 

But Kathleen repeated : 

“Love her enough. She will be yours to make— 
yours to unmake, to mould, fashion, remould—with 
God’s good help. Love her enough.” 

“Yes,” he said, very soberly. 

A slight constraint fell between them; they spoke of 
the féte, and Kathleen presently left to superintend de- 
tails which never worried her, never disturbed the gay 
and youthful confidence which had always from the be- 
ginning marked her successful superintendence of the 
house of Seagrave. 

Geraldine and Scott were very busy playing hostess 
and host, receiving new-comers, renewing friendships in- 
terrupted by half a summer’s separation ; but there was 
very little to do except to be affable, for Kathleen’s staff 
of domestics was perfectly adequate—the old servants 
of the house of Seagrave, who were quite able by them- 
selves to maintain the household traditions and whip 
into line of duty the new and less conscientious recruits 
below stairs. 

A great many people were gathered on the terrace 

212 





CONFESSION 








when Duane descended the stairs, on his way to inspect 
his temporary quarters in Miller’s loft, at Hurryon 
Lodge. 

He stopped and spoke to many, greeted Delancy 
Grandcourt’s loquacious and rotund mother, politely lis- 
tened to her scandalous budget of gossip, shook hands 
cordially with her big, handsome daughter, Catharine, a 
strapping girl, with the shyly honest eyes of her 
brother and the rather heavy but shapely body and 
limbs of an indolent Juno. A harsh voice pronounced 
his name; old Mr. Tappan extended a dry hand and 
bored him through with eyes like holes burnt in a 
blanket. 

** And do you still cultiwate the fine arts, young 
man?” he inquired, as sternly as though he privately 
suspected Duane of maltreating them. 

Duane shook hands with him. 

“ The school of the indiwidool,” continued Mr. Tap- 
pan, “ is what artists need. Woo the muses in solitude ; 
cultiwate ’em in isolation. Didn’t Benjamin West live 
out in the backwoods? And I guess he managed to 
make good without raising hell in the Eekole di Boze 
Arts with a lot of dissipated wagabonds at his elbow, 
inculcating immoral precepts and wasting his time and 
his father’s money.” 

And he looked very hard at Duane, who winced, but 
agreed with him solemnly. 

Geraldine, on the edge of a circle of newly arrived 
guests, leaned over and whispered mischievously: 

“Is that what you did at the Ecole des Beaux Arts? 
Did you behave like all that or did you cultivate the in- 
diwidool? ” 

He shook hands again, solemnly, with Mr. Tappan, 
stepped back, and joined her. 

213 


THE DANGER MARK 








‘‘ Where on earth have you been hiding?” she in- 
quired. 

“You said that if I carved certain cabalistic signs 
on the big beech-tree you would presently appear to me 
in a pink cloud—you faithless little wretch!” 

“ How could I? Three motor-loads arrived from 
Iron Hill before I was half dressed, and ever since I’ve 
been doing my traditional duty; and,” in a lower voice, 
“I was perfectly crazy to go to the beech-tree all the 
time. Did you wait long, you poor boy?” 

Man is born to wait. I came back just now to 
find you. . . . I told Kathleen,” he added, radiant. 

“ What? ” she whispered, flushing deliciously. ‘ Oh, 

pooh! I told her about it this morning—the very first 
thing. We both snivelled. I didn’t sleep at all last 
night. . . . There’s something I wish to tell you ” 

The gay smile suddenly died out in her eyes; a 

strange, wistful tenderness softened them, touching her 
lips, too, which always gave that very young, almost 
childish pathos to her expression. She put out her hand 
instinctively and touched him. 

* J want to be alone with you, Duane—for a little 
while.” 

** Shall I go to the beech-tree and wait?” 

She glanced around with a hopeless gesture: 

“You see? Other people are arriving and I’ve sim- 
ply got to be here. I don’t see how I can get 
away before luncheon. Where were you going just 
now?” 

**T thought I’d step over to the studio to see what 
sort of a shake-down you’ve given me to repose on.” 

“T wish you would. Poor child, I do hope you will 
be comfortable. It’s perfectly horrid to send you out 
of the house——” 





214 


CONFESSION 








“Oh, I don’t mind,” he nodded, laughing, and she 
gave him a shy glance of adieu and turned to receive 
another guest. 

In his extemporized studio at Hurryon Lodge he 
found that old Miller had already provided him with a 
washstand and accessories, a new tin tub and a 
very comfortable iron bed. 

The place was aromatic with the odour of paints, 
varnishes, turpentine, and fixative; he opened the big 
window, let in air and sunshine, and picked up a sheaf 
of brushes, soft and pliable from a fresh washing in 
turpentine and black soap. 

Confronting him on a big improvised easel was the 
full-length, half-reclining portrait of Rosalie Dysart 
—a gay, fascinating, fly-away thing after the deliber- 
ately artificial manner of the French court painters 
who simpered and painted a hundred and fifty years 
ago. Ribbons fluttered from the throat and shoulder 
of this demure, fair-skinned, and blue-eyed creature, 
who was so palpably playing at masquerade. A silken 
parody of a shepherdess—a laughing, dainty, snowy- 
fingered aristocrat, sweet-lipped, provocative, half re- 
clining under a purposely conventional oak, between 
the branches of which big white clouds rolled in a 
dark-blue sky—this was Rosalie as Duane had painted 
her with all the perversely infernal skill of a brush 
always tipped with a mockery as delicate as her 
small, bare foot, dropping below the flowered petti- 
coat. 

The unholy ease with which he had done it gave him 
a secret thrill of admiration. It was apparently all 
surface—the exquisite masquerader, the surrounding 
detail, the technical graciousness and flow of line and 
contour, the effortless brush-work. Yet, with an ease 

15 215 


THE DANGER MARK 








which demanded very respectful consideration, he had 
absorbed and transmitted the frivolous spirit of the old 
French masters, which they themselves took so seri- 
ously; the portrait was also a likeness, yet delightfully 
permeated with the charm of a light-minded. epoch; and 
somehow, behind and underneath it all, a brilliant mock- 
ery sparkled—the half-amused, half-indifferent brill- 
iancy of the painter himself. It was there for any 
who could appreciate it, and it was quite irresistible, 
particularly since he had, after a dazzling preliminary 
study or two from a gamekeeper’s small, chubby. 
son, added, fluttering in mid-air, a pair of white- 
winged Loves, chubby as cherubs but much more 
Gallic. 

Nobody excepting Rosalie and himself had seen the 
picture. What he meant to do with it he did not know, 
half ashamed as he was of its satiric cleverness. Paint- 
ers would hate it—stand hypnotised, spellbound the 
while—and hate it, for they are a serious sort, your 
painters of pictures, and they couldn’t appreciate an 
art which made fun of art; they would execrate the un- 
canny mastery and utterly miss the gay perversity of 
the performance, and Duane knew it and laughed wick- 
edly. What a shock! What would sober, seriously 
inclined people think if an actor who was eminently 
fitted to play Lear, should bow to his audience and 
earnestly perform a very complicated and perfect flip- 
flap? 

Amused with his own disrespectful reflections, he 
stood before the picture, turning from it with a grin 
from time to time to compare it with some dozen 
vigorous canvases hanging along the studio wall— 
studies that he knew would instantly command the 
owlish respect of the truly earnest — connoisseurs, 

216 


CONFESSION 








critics, and academicians in this very earnest land of 
ours. 

There was a Sargent-like portrait of old Miller, 
with something of that great master’s raucous colour- 
ing and perhaps intentional discords, and all of his 
technical effrontery ; and here, too, lurked that shadow 
of mockery ever latent in the young man’s brush— 
something far more subtle than caricature or parody 
—deeper than the imitation of manner—something like 
the evanescent caprice of a strong hand, which seems 
to threaten for a second, then passes on lightly, surely, 
transforming its menace into a caress. 

There were two adorable nude studies of Miller’s 
granddaughters, aged six and seven—quaintly and en- 
gagingly formal in their naive astonishment at finding 
themselves quite naked. There was a fine sketch of 
Howker, wrinkled, dim-eyed, every inch a butler, every 
fibre in him the dignified and self-respecting, old-time 
servant, who added his dignity to that of the house he 
had served so long and well. The latter picture was 
masterly, recalling Gandara’s earlier simplicity and 
Whistler’s single-minded concentration without that 
gentleman’s rickety drawing and harmonious arrange- 
ments in mud. 

For in Duane’s work, from somewhere deep within, 
there radiated outward something of that internal glow 
which never entirely fades from the canvases of the old 
masters—which survives mould and age, the opacity 
of varnish, and the well-intentioned maltreatment of 
unbaked curators. 

There was no mystery about it; he prepared his 
canvas with white-lead, gave it a long sun-bath, mod- 
elled in bone-black and an earth-red, gave it another 
bath in the sun, and then glazed. This, a choice of 

217 


THE DANGER MARK 








permanent colours, and oil as a medium, was the me- 
chanical technique. 

Standing there, thoughts remote, idly sorting and 
re-sorting his brushes, he heard the birds singing on 
the forest’s edge, heard the wind in the pines blowing, 
with the sound of flowing water, felt the warmth of the 
sun, breathed the mounting freshness from the fields. 
Life was still very, very young; it had only begun since 
love had come, and that was yesterday. 

And as he stood there, happy, a trifle awed as he 
began to understand what life might hold for him, 
there came quick steps on the stair, a knock, her voice 
outside his door: 

* Duane! May I come in?” 

He sprang to the door; she stepped inside, breath- 
ing rapidly, delicately flushed from her haste. 

*T couldn’t stand it any longer, so I left Scott to 
scrape and bow and pull his forelock. I’ve got to go 
back in a few minutes. Are you glad to see me? ” 

He took her in his arms. 

* Dearest, dearest!” she murmured, looking at him 
with all her heart in her brown eyes. 

So they stood for a little while, her mouth and body 
acquiescent to his embrace. 

* Such a long, long time since I saw you. Nearly 
half an hour,” he said. 

“Yes.” She drew away a little: 

* Do you know,” she said, looking about her, over 
his shoulder, “ I have never been here since you took it 
as a studio.” 

She caught a glimpse of the picture on the easel, 
freed herself, and, retaining his hand in both of hers, 
gazed curiously at Rosalie’s portrait. 

“How perfectly charming!” she said. “ But, 

218 


CONFESSION 








Duane, there’s a sort of exquisite impudence about 
what you’ve done! Did you mean to gently and disre- 
spectfully jeer at our mincing friends, Boucher, Nat- 
tier, et al.? ” 

“IT knew you’d understand!” he exclaimed, de- 
lighted. “Oh, you wonderful little thing—you dar- 
ling!” He caught her to him again, but she twisted 
away and tucked one arm under his: 

“Don’t, Duane; I want to see these things. What 
a perfectly dear study of Miller’s kiddies! Oh, it is 
too lovable, too adorable! You wouldn’t sell that— 
would you? ” 

“Of course not; it’s yours, Geraldine.” 

After a moment she looked up at him: 

“Ours?” she asked; but the smile faded once more 
from eyes and lips; she suffered him to lead her from 
canvas to canvas, approved them or remained silent, and 
presently turned and glanced toward the small iron 
bed. Manner and gaze had become distrait. 

“You think this will be comfortable, Duane? ” she 
inquired listlessly. 

“ Perfectly,” he said. 

She disengaged her hand from his, walked over to 
the lounge, turned, and signed for him to seat himself. 
Then she dropped to her knees and settled down on 
the rug at his feet, laying her soft cheek against his 
arm. 

“‘T have some things to tell you,” she said in a low 
voice. 

“Very serious things?” he asked, smiling. 

iT 4 Very.” 

“ All right; I am listening.” 

“Very serious things,” she repeated, gazing 
through the window, where green tree-tops swayed in 

219 


THE DANGER MARK 








the breezy sunlight; and she pressed her cheek closer 
to his arm. 

“T have not been very—good,” she said. 

He looked at her, suppressed the smile that 
twitched at his mouth, and waited. 

“I wish I could give myself to you as clean and 
sweet and untainted as—as you deserve. . . . I can’t; 
and before we go any further I must tell you ” 

“Why, you blessed child,” he exclaimed, half 
laughing, half serious. “ You are not going to con- 
fess to me, are you?” 

** Duane, I’ve got to tell you everything. I couldn’t 
rest unless I was perfectly honest with you.” 

* But, dear,” he said, a trifle dismayed, “ such con- 
fidences are not necessary. Nor am I fit to hear your 
list of innocent transgressions " 

“Oh, they are not very innocent. Let me tell you; 
let me cleanse myself as much as I can. I don’t want 
to have any secrets from you, Duane. I want to go to 
you as guiltless as confession can make me. I want to 
begin clean. Let me tell you. Couldn’t you let me tell 
you, Duane? ” 

“* And I, dear? Do—do you expect me to tell you? 
Do you expect me to do as you do?” 

She looked up at him surprised; she had expected 
it. Something in his face warned her of her own igno- 
rance. 

“1 don’t know very much about men, Duane. Are 
there things you cannot say to me?” 

* One or two, dear.” 

* Do you mean until after we are married? ” 


** Not even then. There is no use in your know- 
9° 








ing. 
« She had never considered that, either. 
220 


CONFESSION 








* But ought I to know, Duane? ” 

“No,” he said miserably, “ you ought not.” 

She sat upright for a few seconds longer, gazing 
thoughtfully at space, then pressed her pale face 
against his knee again in silent faith and confidence. 

* Anyway, I know you will be fair to me in your 
own way,” she said. ‘There is only one way that I 
know how to be fair to you. Listen.” 

And in a shamed voice she forced herself to recite her 
list of sins; repeating them as she had confessed them 
to Kathleen. She told him everything; her silly and 
common imprudence with Dysart, which, she believed, 
had bordered the danger mark; her ignoble descent to 
what she had always held aloof from, meaning demorali- 
sation in regard to betting and gambling and foolish 
language; and last, but most shameful, her secret and 
perilous temporising with a habit which already was 
making self-denial very difficult for her. She did not 
spare herself; she told him everything, searching the 
secret recesses of her heart for some small sin in hiding, 
some fault, perhaps, overlooked or forgotten. All that 
she held unworthy in her she told this man; and the 
man, being an average man, listened, head bowed over 
her fragrant hair, adoring her, wretched in heart and 
soul with the heavy knowledge of all he dare not tell or 
forget or cleanse from him, kneeling repentant, in the 
sanctuary of her love and confidence. 

She told him everything—-sins of omission, childish 
depravities, made real only by the decalogue. Of in- 
dolence, selfishness, unkindness, she accused herself; 
strove to count the times when she had yielded to 
temptation. 

He was reading the first human heart he had ever 
known—a - heart still strangely untainted, amid a 

221 


THE DANGER MARK 








society where innocence was the exception, doubtful wis- 
dom the rule, and where curiosity was seldom left very 
long in doubt. 

His hands fell over hers as her voice ceased, but he 
did not speak. 

She waited a little while, then, with a slight nestling 
movement, turned and hid her face on his knees. 

* With God’s help,” she whispered, “ I will subdue 
what threatens me. But I am afraid of it! Oh, Duane, 
I am afraid.” 

He managed to steady his voice. 

“What is it, darling, that seems to tempt you,” 
he asked; “is it the taste—the effect? ” 

“ The—effect. If I could only forget it—but I 
can’t help thinking about it—I suppose just because 
it’s forbidden—For days, sometimes, there is not the 
slightest desire ; then something stirs it up in me, begins 
to annoy me; or the desire comes sometimes when I am 
excited or very happy, or very miserable. There seems 
to be some degraded instinct in me that seeks for it 
whenever my emotions are aroused. . .. I must be 
honest with you; I—I feel that way now—because, I 
suppose, I am a little excited.” 

He raised her and took her in his arms. 

* But you won’t, will you? Simply tell me that you 
won’t.” 

She looked at him, appalled by her own hesitation. 
Was it possible, after the words she had just uttered, 
the exaltation of confession still thrilling her, that she 
could hesitate? Was it morbid over-conscientiousness 
in the hcrror of a broken promise to him that struck 
her silent? 

** Say it, Geraldine.” 

“Oh, Duane! I’ve said it so often to Kathleen and 

222 


CONFESSION 








myself! Let me promise myself again—and keep my 
word. Let me try that way, dear, before I—I promise 
you?” 

There was a feverish colour in her face; she spoke 
rapidly, like one who temporises, trying to convince 
others and over-ride the inward voice; her slender hands 
were restless on his shoulders, her eyes lowered, avoid- 
ing his. 

** Perhaps if you and Kathleen, and I, myself, were 
not so afraid—perhaps if I were not forbidden—if I 
had your confidence and my own that I would not abuse 
my liberty, it might be easier to refrain. Shall we try 
it that way, Duane? ” 

“Do you think it best? ” 

“JT think—I might try that way. Dear, I have so 
much to sustam me now—so much more at stake! Be- 
cause there is the dread of losing you—for, Duane, un- 
til I am mistress of myself, I will never, never marry 
you—and do you suppose I am going to risk our hap- 
piness? Only leave me free, dear ; don’t attempt to wall 
me in at first, and I will surely find my way.” 

She sprang up, trying to smile, hesitated, then 
slowly came back to where he was standing and put her 
arms around his neck. 

** Good-bye until luncheon,” she said. “I must go 
back to my neglected guests—I am going to run all 
the way as fast as my legs can carry me! Kathleen will 
be dreadfully mortified. Do you love me? ... Even 
after my horrid confessions? . . . Oh, you darling! 

. Now that you know the very worst, I begin to 
feel as clean and fresh as though I had just stepped 
from the bath. . . . And I will try to be what you 
would have me, dear. . . . Because I am quite crazy 
about you—oh, completely mad!” 

16 223 


THE DANGER MARK 








She bent impulsively and kissed his hands, freed her- 
self with a breathless laugh, and turned and fled. 

For a long time her lover stood there, motionless, 
downcast, clenched fists in his pockets, face to face with 
the past. And that which lay behind him was that 
which lies behind what is commonly known to the world 
as the average man. 


CHAPTER X 
DUSK 


Tur Masked Dance was to begin at ten that even- 
ing; for that reason dinner had been served early at 
scores of small tables on the terrace, a hilarious and 
topsy-turvy, but somewhat rapid affair, because every- 
body required time for dressing, and already through- 
out the house maids and valets were scurrying around, 
unpacking masks and wigs and dainty costumes for the 
adorning of the guests at Roya-Neh. 

Toward nine o’clock the bustle and confusion be- 
came distracting; corridors were haunted by graceful 
flitting figures in various stages of deshabille, in quest 
of paraphernalia feminine and maids to adjust the 
same. <A continual chatter filled the halls, punctuated 
by smothered laughter and subdued but insistent ap- 
peals for aid in the devious complications of intimate 
attire. 

On the men’s side of the house there was less hub- 
bub and some quiet swearing; much splashing in tubs, 
much cigarette smoke. Men entered each other’s rooms, 
half-clad in satin breeches, silk stockings, and ruffled 
shirts, asking a helping hand in tying queue ribbons 
or adjusting stocks, and lingered to smoke and jest and 
gossip, and jeer at one another’s finery, or to listen to 
the town news from those week-enders recently arrived 
_from the city. 

225 


THE DANGER MARK 








The talk was money, summer shows, and club gos- 
sip, but financial rumours ruled. 

Young Ellis, in pale blue silk and wig, perched airily, 
on a table, became gloomily prophetic concerning the 
steady retirement of capital from philanthropic enter- 
prises hatched in Wall Street; Peter Tappan saw in 
the endlessly sagging market dire disaster for the fu- 
ture digestions of wealthy owners of undistributed 
securities. 

“Marble columns and gold ceilings don’t make a 
trust company,” he sneered. ‘ There are a few billion- 
aire gamblers from the West who seem to think Wall 
Street is Coney Island. There'll be a shindy, don’t 
make any mistake; we’re going to have one hell of a 
time; but when it’s over the corpses will all be shipped 
—ahem !—west.” 

Several men laughed uneasily; one or two old line 
trust companies were mentioned; then somebody spoke 
of the Minnisink, lately taken over by the Algonquin. 

Duane lighted a cigarette and, watching the match 
still burning, said: 

** Dysart is a director. You can’t ask for any more 
conservative citizen than Dysart, can you?” 

Several men looked around for Dysart, but he had 
stepped out of the room. 

Ellis said, after a silence: 

“That gambling outfit from the West has be- 
devilled one or two good citizens in Gotham town.” 

Dr. Bailey shrugged his big, fat shoulders. 

** It’s no secret, I suppose, that the Minnisink crowd 
is being talked about,” he grunted. 

Ellis said in a low but perfectly distinct voice: 

*“ Neither is it any secret that Jack Dysart has been 
hit hard in National Ice.” 

226 


DUSK 








Peter Tappan slipped from his seat on the table 
and threw away his cigarette: 

“One thing is sure as soubrettes,” he observed; 
“the Clearing House means to get rid of certain false 
prophets. The game law is off prophets—in the fall. 
There’ll be some good gunning—under the laws of New 
Jersey.” 

“TI hope they’ll be careful not to injure any marble 
columns or ruin the gold-leaf on the ceilings,’ sneered 
Ellis. ‘Come on, some of you fellows, and fix the 
buckle in this cursed stock of mine.” 

“T thought fixing stocks was rather in your own 
line,” said Duane to the foxy-visaged and celebrated 
manipulator, who joined very heartily in the general 
and unscrupulous laugh. 

A moment later, Dysart, who had heard every word 
from the doorway, walked silently back to his own room 
and sat down, resting his temples between his closed 
fists. 

The well-cut head was already silvery gray at the 
temples; one month had done it. When animated, his 
features still appeared firm and of good colour; re- 
laxed, they were loose and pallid, and around the mouth 
fine lines appeared. Often a man’s hands indicate his 
age, and his betrayed him, giving the lie to his lithe, 
straight, graceful figure. The man had aged amaz- 
ingly in a month or two. 

Matters were not going very well with him. For 
one thing, the Half-Moon Trust Company had finally 
terminated all dealings with the gorgeous marble-pil- 
lared temple of high finance of which he was a director. 
For another, he had met the men of the West, and for 
them he had done things which he did not always care to 
think about. For another, money was becoming dis- 

227 


THE DANGER MARK 








turbingly scarce, and the time was already past for 
selling securities. 

During the last year he had been vaguely aware 
of some occult hostility to himself and his enterprises— 
not the normal hostility of business aggression—but 
something indefinable—merely negative at first, then 
more disturbing, sinister, foreboding ; something in the 
very air to which he was growing more sensitive every 
day. 

By all laws of finance, by all signs and omens, a 
serious reaction from the saturnalia of the last few 
years was already over-due. He had felt it, without 
alarm at first, for the men of the West laughed him to 
scorn and refused to shorten sail. They still refused. 
Perhaps they could not. One thing was certain: he 
could scarcely manage to take in a single reef on his 
own account. He was beginning to realise that the men 
with whom rumour was busy were men marked down by 
their letters; and they either would not or could not 
aid him in shortening sail. 

For a month, now, under his bland and graceful 
learning among the intimates of his set, Dysart had 
been slowly but steadily going to pieces. At such mo- 
ments as this it showed on the surface. It showed now 
in his loose jaw and flaccid cheeks; in the stare of the 
quenched eyes. 

He was going to pieces, and he was aware of it. 
For one thing, he recognised the physical change 
setting in; for another, his cool, selfish, self-centred 
equanimity was being broken down; the rigorous bodily 
régime from which he had never heretofore swerved 
and which alone enabled him to perform the exacting 
social duties expected of him, he had recently neg- 
lected. He felt the impending bodily demoralisation, 

225 


DUSK 








the threatened mental disintegration; he suspected its 
symptoms in a new nervous irritability, in lapses of self- 
command, in unaccountable excesses utterly foreign to 
his habitual self-control. 

Dissolute heretofore only in the negative form, 
whatever it was that impended threatening him, seemed 
also to be driving him into an utter and monstrous lack 
of caution, and—God alone knew how—he had at last 
done the one thing that he never dreamed of doing. 
And the knowledge of it, and the fear of it, bit deeper 
into his shallow soul every hour of the day and 
night. And over all, vague, indefinite, hung some- 
thing that menaced all that he cared for most on 
earth, held most sacred—his social position in the Bor- 
ough of Manhattan and his father’s pride in him 
and it. 


After a while he stood up in his pale blue silken 
costume of that mincing, smirking century which valued 
a straight back and a well-turned leg, and very slowly, 
as though tired, he walked to the door separating his 
wife’s dressing-room from his own. 

** May I come in? ” he asked. 

A maid opened the door, saying that Mrs. Dysart 
had gone to Miss Quest’s room to have her hair pow- 
dered. He seated himself; the maid retired. 

For a while he sat there, absently playing with his 
gilt-hilted sword, sombre-eyed, preoccupied, listening 
to the distant joyous tumult in the house, until quick, 
light steps and a breezy flurry of satin at the door an- 
nounced his wife’s return. 

“Oh,” she said coolly; “ you?” 

That was her greeting; his was a briefer nod. 

She went to her mirror and studied her face, trying 

229 


THE DANGER MARK 








a patch here, a hint of vermilion there, touching up 
brow and lashes and the sweet, curling corners of her 
mouth. 

“Well? ” she inquired, over her shoulder, in- 
solently. 

He got up out of the chair, shut the door, and re- 
turned to his seat again. 

“Have you made up your mind about the D and P 
securities? ” he asked. 

“T told you I’d let you know when I came to any 
conclusion,” she replied drily. 

** Yes, I know what you said, Rosalie. But the time 
is shortening. I’ve got to meet certain awkward obliga- 
tions " 

** So you intimated before.” 

He nodded and went on amiably: “ All I ask of you 
is to deposit those securities with us for a few months. 
They are as safe with us as they are with the Half- 
Moon. Do you think Id let you do it if I were not 
certain? ” 

She turned and scrutinised him insultingly: 

“TI don’t know,” she said, “how many kinds of 
treachery you are capable of.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What I say. Frankly, I don’t know what you are 
capable of doing with my money. If I can judge by 
what you’ve done with my married life, I scarcely feel 
inclined to confide in you financially.” 

“There is no use in going over that again,” he 
said patiently. ‘‘ We differ little from ordinary peo- 
ple, I fancy. I think our house is as united as the 
usual New York domicile. The main thing is to keep it 
so. And in a time of some slight apprehension and 
financial uneasiness—perhaps even of possible future 

230 





DUSK 








stress—you and I, for our own sakes, should stand 
firmly together to weather any possible gale.” 

“YT think I am able to weather whatever I am re- 
sponsible for,” she said. “If you do the same, we can 
get on as well as we ever have.” 

**T don’t believe you understand,” he persisted, 
forcing a patient smile. ‘* All business in the patie is 
conducted upon borrowed capital. I merely——— 

“Do you need more capital?” she inquired, so 
bluntly that he winced. 

“Yes, for a few months. I may require a little ad- 
ditional collateral ? 

“Why don’t you borrow it, then?” 


“ There is no necessity if you will temporarily trans- 
” 








fer 

“Can you borrow it? Or is the ice in your trust 
company too rotten to stand the strain? ” 

He flushed darkly and the temper began to escape in 
his voice: 

“Has anybody hinted that I couldn’t? Have you 
been discussing my personal business affairs with any 
of the pups whom you drag about at your heels? No 
matter what your personal attitude toward me may be, 
only a fool would undermine the very house that ie 

“TI don’t believe you understand, Jack,” she said 
quietly ; “I care absolutely nothing about your house.” 

“Well, you care about your own social status, I 
suppose!” he retorted sharply. 

** Not very much.” 

“ 'That’s an imbecile thing to say!” 

“Is it?” She turned to the mirror and touched her 
powdered hair lightly with both hands, and continued 
speaking with her back turned toward him: 

“I married you for love. Remember that. ‘There 

231 





THE DANGER MARK 








was even something of it alive in the roots, I think, 
until within a few days—in spite of what you are, what 
you have done to me. Now the thing is dead. I can 
tell you when it died, if you like.” 

And as he said nothing: 

“It died when I came in late one evening, and, 
passing my corridor and a certain locked door, I heard 
a young girl sobbing. Then it died.” 

She turned on him, contemptuously indifferent, and 
surveyed him at her leisure: 

_» “Your conduct to me has been such as to deliber- 
ately incite me to evil. Your attitude has been a con- 
stant occult force, driving me toward it. By the life 
you have led, and compelled me to lead, you have vir- 
tually set a premium upon my infidelity. What you 
may have done, I don’t know; what-you have done, even 
recently, I am not sure of. But I know this: you took 
my life and made a parody of it. I never lived; I have 
been tempted to. If the opportunity comes, I will.” 

Dysart rose, his face red and distorted: 

““T thought young Mallett had taught you to live 
pretty rapidly!” he said. 

* No,” she replied, “ you only thought other people 
thought so. That is why you resented it. Your jeal- 
ousy is of that: sort—you don’t care what I am, but you 
do care what the world thinks I am. And that is all 
there ever was to you—all there ever will be: desperate 
devotion to your wretched little social status, which 
includes sufficient money and a chaste wife to make it 
secure.” 

She laughed ; fastened a gardenia in her hair: 

- “J don’t know about your money, and I don’t care. 

As for your wife, she will remain chaste as long as it 
suits her, and not one fraction of a second longer.” 

232 


DUSK 








“Are you crazy?” he demanded. 

** Why, it does seem crazy to you, I suppose—that 
a woman should have no regard for the sacredness of, 
your social status. I have no regard for it. As for 
your honour ”—she laughed unpleasantly—* [ve never | 
had it to guard, Jack. And I'll be responsible for my 
own, and the tarnishing of it. I think that is all I 
have to say.” 

She walked leisurely toward the door, passing him 
with a civil nod of dismissal, and left him standing 
there in his flower-embroidered court-dress, the electric 
light shining full on the thin gray hair at his temples. 

In the corridor she met Naida, charming in her 
blossom-embroidered panniers; and she took both her 
hands and kissed her, saying: 

“Perhaps you won’t care to have me caress you 
some day, so I'll take this opportunity, dear. Where 
is your brother? ” 

“Duane is dressing,” she said. ‘ What did you 
mean by my not wishing to kiss you some day? ” 

“ Nothing, silly.’ And she passed on, turned to 
the right, and met Sylvia Quest, looking very frail and 
delicate in her bath-robe and powdered hair. The girl 
passed her with the same timid, almost embarrassed lit- 
tle inclination with which she now invariably greeted 
her, and Rosalie turned and caught her, turning 
her around with a laugh. “What is the matter, 
dear? ” 

“M-matter? ” stammered Sylvia, trembling under 
the reaction. 

“Yes. You are not very friendly, and I’ve always 
liked you. Have I offended you, Sylvia?” — 

She was looking smilingly straight into the blue 
eyes. 

233 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ No—oh, no!” said the girl hastily. ‘“ Hew can 
you think that, Mrs. Dysart?” 

“Then I don’t think it,” replied Rosalie, laughing. 
“You are a trifle pale, dear. Touch up your lips a bit. 
It’s very Louis XVI. See mine? .. . Will you kiss 
me, Sylvia? ” 

Again a strange look flickered in the girl’s eyes; 
Rosalie kissed her gently ; she had turned very white. 

“ What is your costume? ” asked Mrs. Dysart. 

“Flame colour and gold.” 

“ Hell’s own combination, dear,” laughed Rosalie. 
* You will make an exquisite little demon shepherdess.” 

And she went on, smiling back at the girl in friendly 
fashion, then turned and lightly descended the stair- 
way, snapping on her loup-mask bettie the jolly crowd 
below could identify her. 

Masked figures here and there detained her, ad- 
dressing her in disguised voices, but she eluded them, 
slipped through the throngs on terrace and lawn, ran 
down the western slope and entered the rose-garden. 
A man in mask and violet-gray court costume rose from 
a marble seat under the pergola and advanced toward 
her, the palm of his left hand carelessly balanced on his 
gilded hilt. 

“So you did get my note, Duane? ” she said, laying 
her pretty hand on his arm. 

“TI certainly did. What can I do for you, Rosa- 
lie? ” 

“T don’t know. Shall we sit here a moment? ” 

He laughed, but ae standing after she was 
seated. 

The air was heavy with the scent of rockets and 
phlox and ragged pinks and candy-tuft. Through the 
sweet-scented dusky silence some small and very wake- 


234 


DUSK 








ful bird was trilling. Great misty-winged moths came 
whirring and hovering among the blossoms, pale blurs 
in the darkness, and everywhere the drifting lamps of 
fireflies lighted and died out against the foliage. 

The woman beside him sat with masked head bent 
and slightly turned from him; her restless hands wor- 
ried her fan; her satin-shod feet were crossed and re- 
crossed. 

** What is the matter? ” he asked. 

“Life. It’s all so very wrong.” 

“Oh,” he said, smiling, “ so it’s life that is amiss, 
not we!” 

“TI suppose we are. ...I1 suppose I am. But, 
Duane ’”—she turned and looked at him—‘ I haven’t 
had much of a chance yet—to go very right or very 
wrong.” 

**'You’ve had chances enough for the latter,” he 
said with an unpleasant laugh. “ In this sweet coterie 
we inhabit, there’s always that chance.” 

“There are good women in it, good wives. Your 
sister is in it.” 

“Yes, and I mean to take her out,” said Duane 
grimly. “ Do you think I want Naida to marry some 
money-fattened pup in this set? ” 

*“* Where can you take her? ” 

“ Where I’m going in future myself—among peo- 
ple whose brains are not as obsolete as my appendix; 
where there still exist standards and old-fashioned 
things like principles and religion, and a healthy terror 
of the Decalogue! ” 

“Is anybody really still afraid of the Decalogue? ” 
she asked curiously. 

** Even we are, but some of us are more afraid of 
ennul. Fire and fear are the greatest purifiers in the 

235 


THE DANGER MARK 








world; it’s fear of some sort or other, and only fear, 
that keeps the world as decent as it is.” 

~ Ym not afraid,” she said, playing with her fan. 
*T’m only afraid of dying before I have lived at all.” 

“What do you call living? ” 

“ Being loved,” she said, and looked up at him. 

“You poor little thing!” he said, only partly in 
earnest. 

. “Yes, I’m sorry for the girl I was. ...I was 
rather a nice girl, Duane. You remember me before I 
married.” 

“Yes, Ido. You were a corker. You are still.” 

She nodded: “ Yes, outwardly. Within is—noth- 
ing. I am very, very old; very tired.” 

He said no more. She sat listlessly watching the 
dusk-moths hovering among the pinks. Far away in 
the darkness rockets were rising, spraying the sky with 
fire; faint strains of music came from the forest. 

“Their Féte Galante has begun,” she said. ‘ Am 
I detaining you too long, Duane? ” 

6“ No.” 

She smiled: “It is rather amusing,” she observed, 
““my coming to you for my morals—to you, Duane, 
who were once supposed to possess so few.” 

“Never mind what I possess,” he said, irritated. 
‘* What sort of advice do you expect? ” 

* Why, moral advice, of course.” 

“Oh! Are you on the verge of demoralisation? ” 

* JT don’t know. AmI?... There is a man ? 

“Of course,” he said, coming as near a sneer as he 
was capable. “I know what you’ve done. You’ve 
nearly twisted poor Grandcourt’s head off his honest 
neck. If you want to know what I think of it, it’s an 
abominable thing to do. Why, anybody can see that 

236 





DUSK 








the man is in love with you, and desperately unhappy 
already. I told you to let him alone. You promised, 
too.” 

He spoke rapidly, sharply; she bent her fair head 
in silence until he ended. 

“* May I defend myself?” she asked. 

** Of course.” 

* Then—I did not mean to make him care for me.” 

* You all say that.” 

“Yes; we are not always as innocent as I happen to 
be this time. I really did not try, did not think, that 
he was taking a little unaccustomed kindness on my 
part so seriously. . . . I overdid it; I’d been beastly 
to him—most women are rude to Delancy Grandcourt, 
somehow or other. I always was. And one day—that 
day in the forest—somehow something he said opened 
my eyes—hurt me. . . . And women are fools to be- 
lieve him one. Why, Duane, he’s every inch a man— 
high-minded, sensitive, proud, generous, forbearing.” 

Duane turned and stared at her; and to her annoy- 
ance the blood mounted to her cheeks, but she went on: 

“Of course he has affected me. I don’t know how 
it might have been with me if I were not so—so utterly 
starved.” 

“You mean to say you are beginning to care for 
Delancy Grandcourt? ” 

“Care? Yes—in a perfectly nice way: 

* And otherwise? ” 

**I—don’t know. I am honest with you, Duane; I 
don’t know. A—a little devotion of that kind ”—she 
tried to laugh—* goes to my head, perhaps. I’ve been 
so long without it... . I don’t know. And I came 
here to tell you. I came here to ask you what I ought 
to do.” : 

237 


” 





THE DANGER MARK 








“Good Lord!” said Duane, “do you already care 
enough for him to worry about your effect on him?” 

“* J—do not wish him to be unhappy.” 

“Oh. But you are willing to be unhappy in order 
to save him any uneasiness. See here, Rosalie, you’d 
better pull up sharp.” 

eaad. if” 

“Certainly,” he said brutally. ‘ Not many days 
ago you were adrift. Don’t cut your cable again.” 

A vivid colour mounted to her temples: 

“That is all over,” she said. “ Have I not come to 
you again in spite of the folly that sent me drifting 
to you before? And can I pay you a truer compliment, 
Duane, than to ask the hospitality of your forbearance 
and the shelter of your friendship? ” 

“You are a trump, Rosalie,” he said, after a mo- 
ment’s scowling. ‘“ You’re all right... .I don’t 
know what to say... . If it’s going to give you a 
little happiness to care for this man Aj 

“ But what will it do to him, Duane? ” 

“It ought to do him good if such a girl as you 
gives him all of herself that she decently can. I don’t 
know whether I’m right or wrong!” he added almost 
angrily. ‘ Confound it! there seems no end to con- 
jugal infelicity around us these days. I don’t know 
where the line is—how close to the danger mark an 
unhappy woman may drift and do no harm to anybody. 
‘All I know is that I’m sorry—terribly sorry for you. 
You’re a corker.” 

* Thanks,” she said with a faint smile. ‘“ Do you 
think Delancy may safely agree with you without dan- 
ger to his peace of mind? ” 

“Why not? After all, you’re entitled to lawful 
happiness. So is he. . . . Onl é 

238 








DUSK 








* Only—what? ” 

* T’ve never seen it succeed.” 

** Seen what succeed? ” 

** What is popularly known as the platonic.” 

“Oh, this isn’t that,” she said naively. “ He’s 
rather in love already, and I’m quite sure I could be 
if I—I let myself.” 

Duane groaned. 

** Don’t come to me asking what to do, then,” he 
said impatiently, “ because I know what you ought to 
do and I don’t know what I’d do under the circum- 
stances. You know as well as I do where the danger 
mark is. Don’t you?” 

** I—suspect.” 

* Well, then 2 

** Oh, we haven’t reached it yet,” she said innocently. 

Her honesty appalled him, and he got up and began 
to pace the gravel walk. 

“Do you intend to cross it?” he asked, halting 
abruptly. 

“No, I don’t. . . . I don’t want to. . . . Do you 
think there is any fear of it?” 

“My Lord!” he said in despair, “ you talk like a 
child. I’m trying to realise that you women—some of 
you who appear so primed with doubtful, worldly wis- 
dom—are practically as innocent as the day you mar- 
ried.” 

“IT don’t know very much about some things, 
Duane.” 

**T notice that,” he said grimly. 

She said very gravely: “ This is the first time I have 
ever come very near caring for a man... . I mean 
since I married.” And she rose and glanced toward 
the forest. 





239 


THE DANGER MARK 








They stood together for a moment, listening to the 
distant music, then, without speaking, turned and 
walked toward the distant flare of light which threw 
great trees into tangled and grotesque silhouette. 

“Tales of the Geneii,” she murmured, fastening 
her loup; “ Fate is the Sultan. Pray God nobody cuts 
my head off.” 

“You are much too amusing,” he said as, side by 
side, they moved silently on through the pale starlight, 
like errant phantoms of a vanished age, and no further 
word was said between them, nor did they look at each 
other again until, ahead, the road turned silvery under 
the rays of the Lodge acetylenes, and beyond, the first 
cluster of brilliant lanterns gleamed among the trees. 

** And here we separate,” she said. ‘* Good-bye,” 
holding out her hand. “It is my first rendezvous. 
Wish me a little happiness, please.” 

“Happiness and—good sense,” he said, smiling. 
He retained her hand for a second, let it go and, step- 
ping back, saluted her gaily as she passed before him 
into the blaze of light. 


CHAPTER XI 
FETE GALANTE 


Tue forest, in every direction, was strung with 
lighted lanterns; tall torches burning edged the Gray 
Water, and every flame rippled straight upward in the 
still air. 

Through the dark, mid-summer woodland music of 
violin, viola, and clarionet rang out, and the laughter 
and jolly uproar of the dancers swelled and ebbed, with 
now and then sudden intervals of silence slowly filled 
by the far noise of some unseen stream rushing west- 
ward under the stars. 

Glade, greensward, forest, aisles, and the sylvan 
dancing floor, bounded by garlanded and _ beribboned 
pillars, swarmed with a gay company. Torchlight 
painted strange high lights on silken masks, touching 
with subdued sparkles the eyes behind the slanting eye- 
slits; half a thousand lanterns threw an orange radi- 
ance across the glade, bathing the whirling throngs of 
dancers, glimmering on gilded braid and sword hilt, 
on powdered hair, on fresh young faces laughing be- 
hind their masks; on white shoulders and jewelled 
throats, on fan and brooch and spur and lacquered heel. 
There was a scent of old-time perfume in the air, and, 
as Duane adjusted his mask and drew near, he saw that 
sets were already forming for the minuet. 

He recognised Dysart, glorious in silk and pantie, 
perfectly in his element, and doing his part with 

241 


THE DANGER MARK 








cighteenth-century elaboration; Kathleen, trés grande- 
dame, almost too exquisitely real for counterfeit; De- 
lancy Grandcourt, very red in the face under his mask, 
wig slightly awry, conscientiously behaving as nearly 
like a masked gentleman of the period as he knew how; 
his sister Naida, sweet and gracious; Scott, masked 
and also spectacled, grotesque and preoccupied, cast- 
ing patient glances toward the dusky solitudes that he 
much preferred, and from whence a distant owl fluted 
at intervals, inviting his investigations. 

And there were the Pink ’uns, too, easily identified, 
having all sorts of a good time with a pair of maskers 
resembling Doucette Landon and Peter Tappan; and 
there in powder, paint, and patch capered the Beek- 
mans, Ellises, and Montrosses—all the clans of the 
great and near-great of the country-side, gathering to 
join the eternal hunt for happiness where already the 
clarionets were sounding “ Stole Away.” 

For the quarry in that hunt is a spectre; sighted, it 
steals away; and if one remains very, very still and 
listens, one may hear, far and faint, the undertone of 
phantom horns mocking the field that rides so gal- 
lantly. 

“ Stole away,” whispered Duane in Kathleen’s ear, 
as he paused beside her; and she seemed to know what 
he meant, for she nodded, smiling: 

“You mean that what we hunt is doomed to die 
when we ride it down? ” 

“Let us be in at the death, anyway,” he said. 
“ Kathleen, you’re charming and masked to perfection. 
It’s only that white skin of yours that betrays you; it 
always looks as though it were fragrant. Is that Ger- 
aldine surrounded three deep—over there under that 
oak-tree? ” 


3 


242 


FETE GALANTE 








“Yes; why are you so late, Duane? And I haven’t 
seen Rosalie, either.” 

He did not care to enlighten her, but stood laugh- 
ing and twirling his sword-knot and looking across 
the glittering throng, where a daintily masked young 
girl stood defending herself with fan and bouquet 
against the persistence of her gallants. Then he 
shook out the lace at his gilded cuffs, dropped one 
palm on his sword-hilt, saluted Kathleen’s finger-tips 
with graceful precision, and sauntered toward Geral- 
dine, dusting his nose with his filmy handkerchief 
—a most convincing replica of the bland epoch he 
impersonated, : 

As for Geraldine, she was certainly a very lovely 
incarnation of that self-satisfied and frivolous century ; 
her success had already excited her a little; men seemed 
suddenly to have gone quite mad about her; and this 
and her own beauty were taking effect on her, produc- 
ing an effect the more vivid, perhaps, because it was a 
reaction from the perplexities and tears of yesterday 
and the passionate tension of the morning. 

Within her breast the sense of impending pleasure 
stirred and fluttered deliciously with every breath of 
music; the confused happiness of being in love, the 
relief in relaxation from a sterner problem, the noisy 
carnival surging, rioting around her, men crowding 
about her, eager in admiration and rivalry, the knowl- 
edge of her own loveliness—all these set the warm blood 
racing through every vein, and tinted lip and cheek with 
a colour in brilliant contrast to the velvety masked eyes 
and the snow of the slender neck. 

Through the gay tumult which rang ceaselessly 
around her, where she stood, plying her painted fan, 
her own laughter sounded at intervals, distinct in its 

243 


THE DANGER MARK 








refreshing purity, for it had always that crystalline 
quality under a caressing softness ; but Duane, who had 
advanced now to the outer edge of the circle, detected 
in her voice no hint of that thrilling undertone which 
he had known, which he alone among men had ever 
awakened. Her gaiety was careless, irresponsible, 
childlike in its clarity; under her crescent mask the 
smiles on her smooth young face dawned and died out, 
brief as sun-spots flashing over snow. Briefer intervals 
of apparent detachment from everything succeeded 
them; a distrait survey of the lantern-lit dancers, a 
preoccupied glance at the man speaking to her, a lift- 
ing of the delicate eyebrows in smiling preoccupation. 
But always behind the black half-mask her eyes wan- 
dered throughout the throng as though seeking some- 
thing hidden; and on her vivid lips the smile became 
fixed. 

Whether or not she had seen him, Duane could not 
tell, but presently, as he forced a path toward her, she 
stirred, closed her fan, took a step forward, head a 
trifle lowered; and right of way was given her, as she 
moved slowly through the cluster of men, shaking her 
head in vexation to the whispered importunities mur- 
mured in her ear, answering each according to his folly 
—this man with a laugh, that with a gesture of hand 
-or shoulder, but never turning to reply, never staying 
-her feet until, passing close to Duane, and not even 
looking at him: 

“Where on earth have you been, Duane?” 

“* How did you know me? ” he said, laughing; “‘ you 
haven’t even looked at me yet.” 

“On peut voir sans regarder, Monsieur. Nous 
autres demoiselles, nous voyons trés bien, trés bien . . 
-et nous ne regardons jamais.” 

244 





9 


“She dropped him a very low, very slow, very marvellous courtesy. 





FETE GALANTE 








She had paused, still not looking directly at him. 
Then she lifted her head. 

“Everybody has asked me to dance; I’ve said yes 
to everybody, but I’ve waited for you,” she said. “ It 
will be that way all my life, I think.” 

“It has been that way with me, too,” he said gaily. 
* Why should we wait any more? ” 

““Why are you so late?” she asked. She had 
missed Rosalie, too, but did not say so. 

“IT am rather late,” he admitted carelessly; “ can 
you give me this dance? ” 

She stepped nearer, turning her shoulder to the 
anxious lingerers, who involuntarily stepped back, leav- 
ing a cleared space around them. 

“Make me your very best bow,” she whispered, 
“and take me. I’ve promised a dozen men, but it 
doesn’t matter.” 

He said in a low voice, “ You darling!” and made 
her a very wonderful bow, and she dropped him a very 
low, very slow, very marvellous courtesy, and, rising, 
laid her fingers on his embroidered sleeve. Then turn- 
ing, head held erect, and with a certain sweet insolence 
in the droop of her white lids, she looked at the men 
around her. 

Gray said in a low voice to Dysart: “‘ That’s as 
much as to admit that they’re engaged, isn’t it? When 
a girl doesn’t give a hoot what she does to other men, 
she’s nailed, isn’t she? ” 

Dysart did not answer; Rosalie, passing on Grand- 
court’s arm, caught the words and turned swiftly, look- 
ing over her shoulder at Geraldine. 

But Geraldine and Duane had already forgotten 
the outer world; around them the music swelled ; laugh- 
ter and voice grew indistinct, receding, blending in the 

245 


THE DANGER MARK 








vague tumult of violins. They gazed upon each other 
with vast content. 

“ As a matter of fact,” said Duane, “I don’t re- 
member very well how to dance a minuet. I only wanted 
to be with you. We’ll sit it out if you’re afraid I'll 
make a holy show of you.” 

“Oh, dear,” said Geraldine in pretty distress, 
“and I let you beguile me when I’m dying to do this 
minuet. Duane, you must try to remember! Every- 
body will be watching us.” And as her quick ear 
caught the preliminary bars of the ancient and stately 
measure : 

“It’s the Menuet d’Exaudet,” she said hurriedly ; 
“listen, I’l] instruct you as we move; I'll sing it under 
my breath to the air of the violins,” and, her hand in 
his, she took the first slow, dainty step in the old-time 
dance, humming the words as they moved forward: 


“Gravement 
Noblement 
On s’avance; 
On fait trois pas de cété 
Deux battus, un jeté 
Sans rompre la cadence——” 


Then whispered, smiling: 
“You are quite perfect, Duane; keep your head 
level, dear: 
“Chassez 
Rechassez 
En mesure! 
Saluez— 
Gravement- 
Noblement 
On s’avance 
Sans rompre la cadence. 
246 


FETE GALANTE 








“‘ Quite perfect, my handsome cavalier! Oh, we are 
doing it most beautifully ”’—with a deep, sweeping rev- 
erence; then rising, as he lifted her finger-tips: “‘ You 
are stealing the rest of my heart,” she said. 

“Our betrothal dance,” he whispered. ‘ Shall it 
be so, dear? ” 

They looked at each other as though they stood 
there alone; the lovely old air of the Menuet d’Exaudet 
seemed to exhale from the tremulous violins like per- 
fume floating through the woods; figures of masked 
dancers passed and repassed them through the orange- 
tinted glow; there came a vast rustle of silk, a breezy 
murmur, the scented wind from opening fans, the rat- 
tle of swords, and the Menuet d’Exaudet ended with a 
dull roll of kettle-drums. 

A few minutes later he had her in his arms in a 
deliciously wild waltz, a swinging, irresponsible, gipsy- 
like thing which set the blood coursing and pulses gal- 
loping. 

Every succeeding dance she gave to him. Now and 
then a tiny cloud of powder-dust floated from her 
hair; a ribbon from her shoulder-knot whipped his 
face; her breath touched his lips; her voice, at in- 
tervals, thrilled and caressed his ears, a soft, breath- 
less voice, which mounting exaltation had made unstead- 
ily sweet. 

* You know—dear—I’m dancing every dance with 
you—in the teeth of decency, the face of every conven- 
tion, and defiance of every law of hospitality. I be- 
long to my guests.” 

And again: 

* Do you know, Duane, there’s a sort of a delicious 
madness coming over me. I’m all trembling under my 
skin with the overwhelming happiness of it all. I tell 

17 247 


THE DANGER MARK 








you it’s intoxicating me because I don’t know how to 
endure it.” 

He caught fire at her emotion; her palm was burn- 
ing in his, her breath came irregularly, lips and cheeks 
were aflame, as they came to a breathless halt in the 
torchlight. 

* Dear,” she faltered, “I simply must be decent to 
my guests. ... I’m dying to dance with you again, 
but I can’t be so rude. . . . Oh, goodness! here they 
come, hordes of them. I'll give them a dance or two— 
anybody who speaks first, and then you’ll come and 
find me, won’t you? ... Isn’t that enough to give 
them—two or three dances? Isn’t that doing my duty 
as chatelaine sufficiently? ” 

* Don’t give them any,” he said with conviction. 
“ 'They’ll know we’re engaged if you don’ a 

“Oh, Duane! We are only—only provisionally en- 
gaged,” she said. “I am only on probation, dear. 
You know it can’t be announced until I—I’m fit to 
marry you " 

* What nonsense!” he interrupted, almost savagely. 
* You’re winning out; and even if you are not, I'll 
marry you, anyway, and make you win!” 

“We have talked that over Mg 

“Yes, and it is settled!” 

* No, Duane——” 

“T tell you it is!” 

“No. Hush! Somebody might overhear us. 
Quick, dear, here comes Bunny and Reggie Wye and 
Peter Tappan, all mad as hatters. I’ve behaved abom- 
inably to them! Will you find me after the third dance? 
Very well; tell me you love me then—whisper it, quick! 
... Ah-h!. Moi. aussi, Monsieur. And, remember, 
after the third dance!” 

248 











FETE GALANTE 








She turned slowly from him to confront an ag- 
grieved group of masked young men, who came up 
very much hurt, clamouring for justice, explaining 
volubly that it was up to her to keep her engagements 
and dance with somebody besides Duane Mallett. 

“Mon Dieu, Messieurs, je ne demanderais pas 
mieux,” she said gaily. “‘ Why didn’t somebody ask 
me before? ” 

** You promised us each a dance,” retorted Tappan 
sulkily, “‘ but you never made good. I'll take mine now 
if you don’t mind Pe 

* I’m down first!” insisted the Pink ’un. 

They squabbled over her furiously; Bunbury Gray 
got her; she swung away into a waltz on his arm, glanc- 
ing backward at Duane, who watched her until she dis- 
appeared in the whirl of dancers. Then he strolled to 
the edge of the lantern-lit glade, stood for a moment 
locking absently at the shadowy woods beyond, and 
presently sauntered into the luminous dusk, which be- 
came darker and more opaque as he left the glare of 
the glade behind. 

Here and there fantastic figures loomed, moving 
slowly, two and two, under the fairy foliage; on the 
Gray Water canoes strung with gaudy paper lanterns 
drifted; clouds of red fire rolled rosy and vaporous 
along the water’s edge; and in the infernal glow, hazy 
shapes passed and repassed, finding places among scores 
of rustic tables, where servants in old-time livery and 
powdered wigs hurried to and fro with ices and salads, 
and set the white-covered tables with silverware and 
crystal. 

A dainty masked figure in demon red flitted across 
his path in the uncanny radiance. He hailed her, and 
she turned, hesitated, then, as though convinced of his 

249 





THE DANGER MARK 








identity, laughed, and hastened on with a nod of in- 
vitation. 

“Where are you going, pretty mask?” he in- 
quired, wending his pace and trying to recognise the 
costume in the uncertain cross light. 

But she merely laughed and continued to retreat 
before him, keeping the distance between them, hasten- 
ing her steps whenever he struck a faster gait, pausing 
and looking back at him with a mocking smile when his 
steps slackened; a gracefully malicious, tormenting, 
laughing creature of lace and silk, whose retreat was 
a challenge, whose every movement and gesture seemed 
instinct with the witchery of provocation. 

On the edge of the ring of tables she paused, picked 
up a goblet, held it out to a passing servant, who im- 
mediately filled the glass. 

Then, before Duane could catch her, she drained the 
goblet to his health and fled into the shadows, he hard 
on her heels, pressing her closer, closer, until the pace 
became too hot for her, and she turned to face him, 
panting and covering her masked face with her fan. 

* Now, my fair unknown, we shall pay a few penal- 
ties,” he said with satisfaction; but she defended her- 
self so adroitly that he could not reach her mask. 

“ Be fair to me,” she gasped at last; “ why are you 
so rough with me when—when you need not be? I 
knew you at once, Jack.” 

And she dropped her arms, standing resistless, 
breathing fast, her masked face frankly upturned to be 
kissed. 

“Now, who the devil,” thought Duane, “have I 
got in my arms? And for whom does she take me?” 

He gazed searchingly into the slitted eye-holes; the 
eyes appeared to be blue, as well as he could make out. 

250 


FETE GALANTE 








He looked at the fresh laughing mouth, a young, sensi- 
tive mouth, which even in laughter seemed not entirely 
gay. 

“Don’t you really mind if I kiss you?” He spoke 
in a whisper to disguise his voice. 

“Tsn’t it a little late to ask me that?” she said; 
and under her mask the colour stained her skin. “I 
think what we do new scarcely matters.” 

She was so confident, so plainly awaiting his caress, 
that for a moment he was quite ready to console her. 
And did not, could not, with the fragrant and yielding 
intimacy of Geraldine still warm in his quickened heart. 

She stood quite motionless, her little hands warm in 
his, her masked face upturned. And, as he merely 
stared at her: 

“ What is the matter, Jack?” she breathed. “ Why 
do you look at me so steadily? ” 

He ought to have let her go then; he hesitated, won- 
dering which Jack she supposed him to be; and before 
he realised it her arms were on his shoulders, her mouth 
nearer to his. 

“ Jack, you frighten me! What is it? ” 

“ N-nothing,” he continued to stammer. 

“Yes, there is. Does your—your wife suspect— 
anything 2 

“No, she doesn’t,” said Duane grimly, trying to 
free himself without seeming to. “ I’ve got an appoint- 
ment “3 

But the girl said piteously: “It isn’t—Geraldine, 
is it?” 








“ What!” 
* You—you admitted that she attracted you—for 
a little while. . . . Oh, I did forgive you, Jack; truly 


I did with all my miserable heart! I was so fearfully 
251 





THE DANGER MARK 





unhappy—I would have done anything.” ... Her 
face flushed scarlet. ‘‘ And I—did. . . . But you do 
love me, don’t you?” And the next moment her lips 
were on his with a sob. 

Duane reached back and quietly unclasped her 
fingers. Then very gently he forced her to a seat on 
a great fallen log. Still looking up at him, droopingly 
pathetic in contrast to her gay début with him, she 
naively slipped up the mask over her forehead and 
passed her hand across her pretty blue eyes. Sylvia 
Quest! 

The sinister significance of her attitude flashed over 
him, all doubt vanished, all the comedy of their en- 
counter was gone in an instant. Over him swept a 
startled sequence of emotions—bitter contempt for 
Dysart, scorn of the wretchedly equivocal situation and 
of the society that bred it, a miserable desire to spare 
her, vexation at himself for what he had unwittingly 
stumbled upon. The last thought persisted, dominated ; 
succeeded by a disgusted determination that she must 
be spared the shame and terror of what she had inad- 
vertently revealed; that she must never know she had 
not been speaking to Dysart himself. 

“Tf I tell you that all is well—and if I tell you no 
more than that,” he whispered, “ will you trust me? ” 

* Have I not done so, Jack? ” 

The tragedy in her lifted eyes turned him cold with 
fury. 

* Then wait :here until I return,” he said. 
** Promise.” 

“I promise,” she sighed, “ but I don’t understand. 
I’m a—a little frightened, dear. But I—hbelieve you.” 

He swung on his heel and made toward the lights 
once more, and a moment later the man he sought 

252 


FETE GALANTE 








passed within a few feet of him, and Duane knew him 
by his costume, which was a blue replica of his own gray 
silks. 

* Dysart!” he said sharply. 

The masked figure swung gracefully around and 
stood still, searching the shadowy woodland inquiringly. 

“J want a word with you. Here—not in the light, 
if you please. You recognise my voice, don’t you? ” 

“Ts that you, Mallett?” asked Dysart coldly, as 
the former appeared in the light for an instant and 
turned back again with a curt gesture. 

“Yes. I want you to step over here among the 
trees, where nobody can interrupt us.” 

Dysart followed more slowly; came to a careless 
halt: 

* Well, what the devil do you want?” he demanded 
insolently. 

“Tl tell you. Dve had an encounter with a mask 
who mistook me for you. . . » And she has said—sey- 
eral. things—under that impression. She still believes 
that I am you. I asked her to wait for me over there 
by those oaks. Do you see where I mean?” He pointed 
and Dysart nodded coolly. ‘ Well, then, I want you to 
go back there—find her, and act as though it had been 
you who heard what she said, not I.” 

* What do you mean?” 

“T mean exactly that. The girl ought never to 
know that what she said was heard, and—and wnder- 
stood, Dysart, by any man in the world except the 
blackguard I’m telling this to. Now, do you under- 
stand? ” 

He stepped nearer: 

“The girl is Sylvia Quest. Now, do you under- 
stand, damn you!” 

253 


THE DANGER MARK 








A stray glimmer from the distant lanterns fell 
across Dysart’s masked visage. The skin around the 
mouth was loose and ashy, the dry lips worked. 

“ That was a dirty trick of yours,” he stammered ; 
“a scoundrelly thing to do.” 

**Do you suppose that I dreamed for an instant 
that she was convicting herself and you?” said Duane 
in bitter contempt. “Go and manufacture some ex- 
planation of my conduct as though it were your 
own. Let her have that much peace of mind, any- 
way.” 

* You young sneak!” retorted Dysart. “I sup- 
pose you think that what you have heard will warrant 
your hanging around my wife. Try it and see.” 

“Good God, Dysart!” he said, “I never thought 
you were anything more vicious than what is called a 
‘dancing man.’ What are you, anyhow? ” 

* You'll learn if you tamper with my affairs,” said 
Dysart. He whipped off his mask and turned a corpse- 
like visage on the younger man. Every feature of his 
face had altered; his good looks were gone, the youth 
in his eyes had disappeared, only a little evil lustre 
played over them; and out of the drawn pallor Duane 
saw an old man peering, an old man’s lips twitching 
back from uneven and yellowed teeth. 

** Mallett,” he said, “ you listen to me. Keep your 
investigating muzzle out of my affairs; forget what 
you’ve ferreted out; steer clear of me and mine. I want 
no scandal, but if you raise a breath of it you'll have 
enough concerning yourself to occupy you. Do you 
understand? ” 

“No,” said Duane mechanically, staring at the 
man before him. 

* Well, then, to be more precise, if you lift one 

254 


FETE GALANTE 








finger to injure me you'll cut a figure in court. ... 
And you can marry her later.” 

“ Who? 33 

“ My wife. I don’t think Miss Seagrave will stand 
for what I’ll drag you through if you don’t keep clear 
of me!” 

Duane gazed at him curiously: 

“So that is what you are, Dysart,” he said aloud 
to himself. 

Dysart’s temples reddened. 

“Yes, and then some! . . . I understand that you 
have given yourself the privilege of discussing my finan- 
cial affairs in public. Have you?” 

Duane said in a dull voice: “ The Algonquin Trust 
was mentioned, I believe. I did say that you are a 
director.” 

“You said I was hard hit and that the Clearing 
House meant to weed out a certain element that I repre- 
sented in New York.” 

“TI did not happen to say that,” said Duane wear- 
ily, “ but another man did.” 

“Oh. Yow didn’t say it?” 

* No. I don’t lie, Dysart.” 

“Then add to that negative virtue by keeping your 
mouth shut,” said Dysart between his teeth, “ or you'll 
have other sorts of suits on your hands. I warn you 
now to keep clear of me and mine.” 

“ Just what is yours? ” inquired Duane patiently. 

* You'll find out if you touch it.” 

“Oh. Is—is Miss Quest included by any hazard? 
Because if the right chance falls my way, I shall cer- 
tainly interfere.” 

“If you do, I shall begin suit for alienation within 
twenty-four hours.” 

18 255 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Oh, no, you won’t. You’re horribly afraid, Dy- 
sart. This grimacing of yours is fear. All you want 
is to be let alone, to burrow through the society that 
breeds your sort. Like a maggot in a chestnut you feed 
on what breeds you. I don’t care. Feed! What bred 
you is as rotten as you are. I’m done with it—done 
with all this,” turning his head toward the flare of light. 
“Go on and burrow. What nourishes you can look out 
for itself. . . . Only ”’—he wheeled around and looked 
into the darkness where, unseen, Sylvia Quest awaited 
him—* only, in this set, the young have less chance than 
the waifs of the East Side.” 

He walked slowly up to Dysart and struck him 
across the face with open palm. 

* Break with that girl or Dll break your head,” 
he said. 

Dysart was down on the leaves, struggling up to 
his knees, then to his feet, the thin blood running across 
his chin. The next instant he sprang at Duane, who 
caught him by both arms and forced him savagely into 
quivering inertia. 

“Don’t,” he said.  You’re only a thing that 
dances. Don’t move, I tell you. . . . Wipe that blood 
off and go and set the silly girl’s heart at rest... . 
And keep away from her afterward. Do you hear? ” 
He set his teeth and shook him so wickedly that Dy- 

sart’s head rolled and his wig fell off. 

“I know something of your sloppy record,” he con- 
tinued, still shaking him; “ I know about your lap-dog 
fawning around Miss Seagrave. It is generally under- 
stood that you’re as sexless as any other of your kind. 
I thought so, too. Now I know you. Keep clear of me 
and mine, Dysart. . . . And that will be about all.” 

He left him planted against a tree and walked to- 

256 


FETE GALANTE 








ward the lights once more, breathing heavily and in an 
ugly mood. 

On the edge of the glade, just outside the lantern 
glow, he stood sombre, distrait, inspecting the torn lace 
on his sleeve, while all around him people were un- 
masking amid cries of surprise and shouts of laughter, 
and the orchestra was sounding a march, and multi- 
coloured Bengal fires rolled in clouds from the water’s 
edge, turning the woods to a magic forest and the peo- 
ple to tinted wraiths. 

Behind him he heard Rosalie’s voice, caressing, tor- 
menting by turns; and, glancing around for her victim, 
beheld Grandcourt at heel in calflike adoration. 

Kathleen’s laughter swung him the other way. 

“Oh, Duane,” she cried, the pink of excitement in 
her cheeks, “isn’t it all too heavenly! It looks like 
Paradise afire with all those rosy clouds rolling under 
foot. Have you ever seen anything quite as charm- 
ing?” 

“It’s rotten,” said Duane brusquely, tearing the 
tattered lace free and tossing it aside. 

** Wh-what!” she exclaimed. 

*T say it’s all rotten,” he repeated, looking up at 
her. ‘ All this—the whole thing—the stupidity of it— 
the society that’s driven to these kind of capers, dread- 
ing the only thing it ever dreads—ennui! Look at us 
all! For God’s sake, survey us damn fools, herded 
here in our pinchbeck mummery—forcing the sanc- 
tuary of these decent green woods, polluting them 
with smoke and noise and dirty little intrigues!) I’m 
sick of it!” 

* Duane! ” 

“Oh, yes; I’m one of *em—dragging my idleness 
and viciousness and my stupidity and my money at my 

257 


THE DANGER MARK 








heels. I tell you, Kathleen, this is no good. There’s a 
stench of money everywhere; there’s a staler aroma in 
the air, too—the dubious perfume of decadence, of 
moral atrophy, of stupid recklessness, of the ennui that 
breeds intrigue! I’m deadly tired of it—of the sort of 
people I was born among; of their women folk, whose 
sole intellectual relaxation is in pirouetting along the 
danger mark without overstepping, and in concealing 
it when they do; of the overgroomed men who can do 
nothing except what can be done with money, who 
think nothing, know nothing, sweat nothing but money 
and what it can buy—like horses and yachts and prima 
donnas pt 

She uttered a shocked exclamation, but he went 
on: 

“Yes, prima donnas. Which of our friends was it 
who bought that pretty one that sang in ‘La Esmer- 
alda ’? ” 

* Duane!” she exclaimed in consternation; but he 
took her protesting hands in his and held her power- 
less. 

* You happen to be a darling,” he said; “‘ but you 
were not born to this environment. Geraldine was— 
and she is a darling. God bless her. Outside of my 
sister, Naida, and you two—with the exception of the 
newly fledged and as yet mercifully unregurgitated with 
vicious wisdom—who are all these people? Ciphers, 
save for their balances at their banks; nameless, save 
for the noisy reiteration of their hard-fisted forebears’ 
names; without any ambition, except financial and so- 
cial; without any objective, save the escape from ennui 
—without any taste, culture, inspiration, except that 
of physical gratification! Oh, Lord, I’m one of them, 
but I resign to-night.” 

258 





FETE GALANTE 








“* Duane, you’re quite mad,” she said, wrenching her 
hands free and gazing at him rather fearfully. 

**T think he’s dead sensible,” said a calm voice at 
her elbow; and Scott Seagrave appeared, twirling his 
mask and blinking at them through his spectacles. 

Duane laughed: “ Of course I am, you old reptile- 
hunting, butterfly-chasing antediluvian! But, come 
on; Byzantium is gorging its diamond-swathed girth 
yonder with salad and champagne; and I’m hungry, 
even if Kathleen isn’t Ps 

“TI am!” she exclaimed indignantly. “ Scott, can’t 
you find Naida and Geraldine? Duane and I will keep 
a table until you. return ‘s 

“Tl find them,” said Duane; and he walked off 
among the noisy, laughing groups, his progress greeted 
uproariously from table to table. He found Naida and 
Bunbury Gray, and they at once departed for the ren- 
dezvous indicated. 

** Geraldine was here a little while ago,” said Gray, 
“but she walked to the lake with Jack Dysart. My, 
but she’s hitting it up,” he added admiringly. 

“ Hitting it up? ” repeated Duane. 

** For a girl who never does, I mean. I imagine that 
she’s a novice with champagne. Champagne and Ger- 
aldine make a very fetching combination, I can tell 
you.” 

“She took no more than I,” observed Naida with 
a shrug; “ one solitary glass. If a girl happens to be 
high strung and ventures to laugh a little, some 
wretched man is sure to misunderstand! Bunny, you’re 
a gadabout!” 

She made her way out from the maze of tables, 
Bunny following, somewhat abashed ; and Duane walked 
toward the shore, where dozens of lantern-hung canoes 

259 








9 


THE DANGER MARK 








bobbed, and the pasteboard cylinders of Bengal fire 
had burned to smouldering sparks. 

In the dim light he came on the people he was look- 
ing for, seated on the rocks. Dysart, at her feet, was 
speaking in an undertone; Geraldine, partly turned 
away from him, hands clasped around her knees, was 
staring steadily across the water. 

Neither rose as he came up; Dysart merely became 
mute; Geraldine looked around with a start; her lips 
parted in a soundless, mechanical greeting, then the 
flush in her cheeks brightened; and as she rose, Dysart 
got onto his feet and stood silently facing the new ar- 
rival. 3 

**T said after the third dance, you know,” she ob- 
served with an assumed lightness that did not deceive 
him.. And, as he made no answer, he saw the faint 
flicker of fright in her eyes and the lower lip quiver. 

He said pleasantly, controlling his voice: ‘ Isn’t 
this after the third dance? You are to be my partner 
for supper, I think.” 

“A long time after; and I’ve already sat at Bel- 
shazzar’s feast, thank you. I couldn’t very well starve 
waiting for you, could I?” . And she forced a smile. 

** Nevertheless, I must claim your promise,” he said. 

There was a silence; she stood for a moment gazing 
at nothing, with the same bright, fixed smile, then 
turned and glanced at Dysart. The glance was his 
dismissal. and he knew it. 

as i I must give you up,” he said cheerfully, at his 
ease, “ please pronounce sentence.” 

“I am afraid you really must, Mr. Dysagk. % 

There was another interval of. constraint; then 
Dysart spoke. His self-possession was admirable, his 
words perfectly chosen, his exit in faultless taste. 

260 


FETE GALANTE 








They looked after him until he was lost to view in 
the throngs beyond, then the girl slowly reseated her- 
self, eyes again fixed on the water, hands clasped tightly 
upon her knee, and Duane found a place at her elbow. 
So they began a duet of silence. 

The little wavelets came dancing shoreward out of 
the darkness, breaking with a thin, splashing sound 
against the shale at their feet. Somewhere in the 
night a restless heron croaked and croaked among the 
willows. 

“ Well, little girl? ” he asked at last. 

** Well? ” she inquired, with a calmness that did not 
mislead him. } 

“IT couldn’t come to you after the third dance,” 
he said. 

“se Why? 39 

He evaded the question: ‘‘ When I came back to the 
glade the dancing was already over; so I got Kath- 
leen and Naida to save a table.” 

“Where had you been all the while? ” 

“If you really wish to know,” he said pleasantly, 
“TI was talking to Jack Dysart on some rather im- 
portant matters. I did not realise how the time went.” 

She sat mute, head lowered, staring out across the 
dark water. Presently he laid one hand over hers, and 
she straightened up with a tiny shock, turned and 
looked him full in the eyes. 

“T’ll tell you why you failed me—failed to keep the 
first appointment I ever asked of you. It was because 
you were so preoccupied with a mask in flame colour.”’ 

He thought a moment: 

“Did you believe you saw me with somebody in a 
vermilion costume? ” 

“Yes; I did see you. It was too late for me'to re- 

261 


THE DANGER MARK 








tire without attracting your attention. I was not a 
willing eavesdropper.” 

‘Who was the girl you thought you saw me with? ” 

“Sylvia Quest. She unmasked. There is no mis- 
take.” 

So he was obliged to lie, after all. 

“It must have been Dysart you saw. His costume 
is very like mine, you know——” 

** Does Jack Dysart stand for minutes holding Syl- 
via’s hands—and is she accustomed to place her hands 
on his shoulders, as though expecting to be kissed? 
And does he kiss her?” 

So he had to lie again: “ No, of course not,” he said, 
smiling. ‘So it could not have been Dysart.” 

“There are only two costumes like yours and Mr. 
Dysart’s. Do you wish me to believe that Sylvia is 
common and depraved enough to put her arms around 
the neck of a man who is married? ” 

There was no other way: “ No,” he said, “ Sylvia 
isn’t that sort, of course.” 

“Tt was either Mr. Dysart or you.” 

He said nothing. 

“Then it was you!” in hot contempt. 

Still he said nothing. 

“Was it?” with a break in her voice. 

‘Men can’t admit things of that kind,” he managed 
to say. 

The angry colour surged up to her cheeks, the 
angry tears started, but her quivering lips were not un- 
der command and she could only stare at him through 
the blur of grief, while her white hands clinched and 
relaxed, and her fast-beating heart seemed to be driving 
the very breath from her body. 

* Geraldine, dear a 

262 





FETE GALANTE 








“Tt wasn’t fair!” she broke out fiercely; “ there 
is no honour in you—no loyalty! Oh, Duane! Duane! 
How could you—at the very moment we were nearer 
together than we had ever been! It isn’t jealousy that 
is crying out in me; it is nothing common or ignoble 
in me that resents what you have done! It is the 
treachery of it! How could you, Duane?” 

The utter hopelessness of clearing himself left him 
silent. How much was to be asked of him as sacrifice 
to code? How far was he expected to go to shield 
Sylvia Quest—this unhappy, demoralised girl, whose 
reputation was already at the mercy of two men? 

** Geraldine,” he said, “ it was nothing but a carni- 
val flirtation—a chance encounter that meant nothing 
—the idlest kind of. a 

“Ts it idle to do what you did—and what she did? 
Oh, if I had only not seen it—if I only didn’t know! I 
never dreamed of such a thing in you. Bunny Gray 
and I were taking a short cut to the Gray Water to 
sit out the rest of his dance—and he saw it, too— 
and he was furious—he must have been—because he’s 
devoted to Sylvia.” She made a hopeless gesture and 
dropped her hand to her side: “ What a miserable night 
it has been for me! It’s all spoiled—it’s ended... . 
And I—my courage went. . . . I’ve done what I never 
thought to do again—what I was fighting down to 
make myself safe enough for you to marry—yow to 
marry!” She laughed, but the mirth rang shockingly 
false. 

“You mean that you had one glass of champagne,” 
he said. 

“ Yes, and another with Jack Dysart. Tl have 
some more presently. Does it concern you?” 

* T think so, Geraldine.” 

263 





THE DANGER MARK 








“You are wrong. Neither does what you’ve been 
doing concern me—the kind of man you’ve been—the 
various phases of degradation you have accom- 
plished 4 

“What particular species of degradation?’ he 
asked wearily, knowing that Dysart was now bent on 
his destruction. ‘‘ Never mind; don’t answer, Ger- 
aldine,” he added, “ because there’s no use in trying 
to set myself right; there’s no way of doing it. All 
I can say is that I care absolutely nothing for Sylvia 
Quest, nor she for me; that I love you; that if I have 
ever been unworthy of you—as God knows I have— 
it is a bitterer memory to me than it could ever be 
to you.” 

‘Shall we go back?” she said evenly. 

* Yes, if you wish.” 

They walked back together in silence; a jolly com- 
pany claimed them for their table; Geraldine laugh- 
ingly accepted a glass of champagne, turning her back 
squarely on Duane. 

Naida and Kathleen came across. 

“We waited for you as long as we could,” said his 
pretty sister, smothering a yawn. ‘“I’m_ horribly 
sleepy. Duane, it’s three o’clock. Would you mind 
taking me across to the house? ” 

He cast a swift, anxious glance at Geraldine; her 
vivid colour, the splendour of her eyes, her feverish 
laughter were ominous. With her were Gray and Syl- 
via, rather noisy in their gaiety, and the boisterous 
Pink ’uns, and Jack Dysart, lingering near, the make- 
up on his face in ghastly contrast to his ashen pallor 
and his fixed and unvaried grin. 

“T’m waiting, Duane,” said Naida plaintively. 

So he turned away with her through the woods, 

264: 





FETE GALANTE 








where one by one the brilliant lantern flames were dying 
out, and where already in the east a silvery lustre 
heralded the coming dawn. 


When he returned, Geraldine was gone. At the 
house somebody said she had come in with Kathleen, 
not feeling well. 

“ The trouble with that girl,” said a man whom he 
did not know, “is that she’s had too much cham- 
pagne.” 

“ You lie,” said Duane quietly. “Is that perfectly 
plain to you?” 

For a full minute the young man stood rigid, crim- 
son, glaring at Duane. Then, having the elements of 
decency in him, he said: 

“J don’t know who you are, but you are perfectly 
right. I did lie. And I'll see that nobody else does.” 


CHAPTER XII 
THE LOVE OF THE GODS 


Two days later the majority of the people had left 
Roya-Neh, and the remainder were preparing to make 
their adieux to the young chatelaine by proxy; for 
Geraldine had kept her room since the night of the 
masked féte, and nobody except Kathleen and Dr. Bailey 
had seen her. 

“‘ Fashionable fidgets,” said Dr. Bailey, in answer 
to amiable inquiries; “ the girl has been living on her 
nerves, like the rest of you, only she can’t stand as much 
as you can.” 

To Duane he said, in reply to persistent ques 
tions : 

“As a plain and unromantic proposition, young 
man, it may be her liver. God alone knows with what 
young women stuff their bodies in those bucolic soli- 
tudes.” 

To Kathleen he said, after questioning her and lis- 
tening in silence to her guarded replies: 

“T don’t know what is the matter, Mrs. Severn. 
The girl is extremely nervous. She acts, to me, as 
though she had something on her mind, but she insists 
that she hasn’t. If I were to be here, I might come to 
some conclusion within the next day or two.” 

Which frightened Kathleen, and she asked whether 
anything serious might be anticipated. 

“ Not at all,” he said. 

266 


THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








So, as he was taking the next train, there was noth- 
ing to do. He left a prescription and whizzed away to 
the railroad station with the last motor-load of guests. 

There remained only Duane, Rosalie Dysart, Grand- 
court, and Sylvia Quest, a rather subdued and silent 
group on the terrace, unresponsive to Scott’s unfeigned 
gaiety to find himself comparatively alone and free to 
follow his own woodland predilections once more. 

* A cordial host you are,” observed Rosalie; 
“ you’re guests are scarcely out of sight before you 
break into inhuman chuckles.” 

** Speed the parting,” observed Scott, in excellent 
spirits ; “ that’s the truest hospitality.” 

** IT suppose your unrestrained laughter will be our 
parting portion in a day or two,” she said, amused. 

* No; I don’t mind a few people. Do you want to 
come and look for scarabs? ” 

“Scarabs? Do you imagine you’re in Egypt, my 
poor friend? ” 

Scott sniffed: ‘‘ Didn’t you know we had a few liv- 
ing species around here? Regular scarabs. Kathleen 
and I found three the other day—one a regular beauty 
with two rhinoceros horns on the thorax and iridescent 
green and copper tinted wing-covers. Do you want to 
help me hunt for some more? You'll have to put on 
overshoes, for they’re in the cow-yards.” 

Rosalie, intensely bored, thanked him and declined. 
Later she opened a shrimp-pink sunshade and, followed 
by Grandcourt, began to saunter about the lawn in 
plain sight, as people do preliminary to effacing them- 
selves without exciting comment. 

But there was nobody to comment on what they did; 
Duane was reading a sporting-sheet, souvenir of the 
departed Bunbury; Sylvia sat pallid and preoccupied, 

267 


THE DANGER MARK 








cheek resting against her hand, looking out over the 
valley. Her brother, her only living relative, was sup- 
posed to have come up that morning to take her to the 
next house party on the string which linked the days 
of every summer for her. But Stuyvesant had not 
arrived; and the chances were that he would turn up 
within a day or two, if not too drunk to remember her. 

So Sylvia, who was accustomed to waiting for her 
brother, sat very colourless and quiet by the terrace 
parapet, pale blue eyes resting on the remoter hills— 
not always, for at intervals she ventured a furtive look 
at Duane, and there was something of stealth and of 
fright in the stolen glance. 

As for Scott, he sat on the parapet, legs swinging, 
fussing with a pair of binoculars and informing the 
two people behind him—who were not listening—that 
he could distmguish a black-billed cuckoo from a 
thrasher at six hundred yards. 

Which edified neither Sylvia nor Duane, but the boy 
continued to impart information with unimpaired cheer- 
fulness until Kathleen came out from the house. 

“ How’s Sis?” he inquired. 

“J think she has a headache,” replied Kathleen, 
looking at Duane. 

* Could I see her?” he asked. 

Kathleen said gently that Geraldine did not feel like 
seeing anybody at that time. A moment later, in 
obedience to Scott’s persistent clamouring for scarabs, 
she went across the lawn with the young master of 
Roya-Neh, resigned to the inevitable in the shape of 
two-horned scarabs or black-billed cuckoos. 

It had always been so with her; it would always be 
so. Long ago the Seagrave twins had demanded all 
she had to give; now, if Geraldine asked less, Scott 

268 


THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








exacted double. And she gave—how happily, only her 
Maker and her conscience knew. 

Duane was still reading—or he had all the appear-. 
ance of reading—when Sylvia lifted her head from her 
hand and turned around with an effort that cost her 
what colour had remained under the transparent skin 
of her oval face. 

* Duane,” she said, * it occurred to me just now 
that you might have really mistaken what I said and 
did the other night.” She hesitated, nerving herself 
to encounter his eyes, lifted and levelled across the top 
of his paper at her. 

He waited; she retained enough self-command to 
continue with an effort at lightness: 

** Of course it was all carnival fun—my pretending 
to mistake you for Mr. Dysart. You understood it, 
didn’t you? ” 

*“ Why, of course,” he said, smiling. 

She went on: ‘‘ I—don’t exactly remember what 
I said—I was trying to mystify you. But it occurred 
to me that perhaps it was rather imprudent to pre- 
tend to be on—on such impossible terms with Mr. 
Dysart 3 

There was something too painful in her effort for 
him to endure. He said laughingly, not looking at her: 

“Oh, I wasn’t ass enough to be deceived, Sylvia. 
Don’t worry, little girl.” And he resumed the study 
of his paper. 

Minutes passed—terrible minutes for one of them, 
who strove to find relief in his careless reassurance, tried 
desperately to believe him, to deceive that intuition 
which seldom fails her sex. 

He, with. the print blurred and meaningless before 
him, sat miserable, dumb with the sympathy he could 

269 





THE DANGER MARK 








not show, hot with the anger he dared not express. He 
thought of Dysart as he had. revealed himself, now gone 
back to town to face that little crop of financial ru- 
mours concerning the Algonquin that persisted so 
wickedly and would not be quieted. For the first time 
in his life, probably, Dysart was compelled to endure 
the discomforts of a New York summer—more discom- 
forts this summer than mere dust and heat and noise. 
For men who had always been on respectful financial 
terms with Dysart and his string of banks and his Al- 
gonquin enterprise were holding aloof from him; men 
who had figured for years in the same columns of print 
where his name was so often seen as director and trustee 
and secretary—fellow-members who served for the hon- 
our of serving on boards of all sorts, charity boards, 
hospital, museum, civic societies—these men, too, 
seemed to be politely, pleasantly, even smilingly edging 
away from him in some indefinable manner. 

Which seemed to force him toward certain compara- 
tively newcomers among the wealthy financiers of the 
metropolis—brilliant, masterful, restless men from the 
West, whose friendship in the beginning he had sought, 
deeming himself farsighted. 

Now that his vision had become normally adjusted 
he cared less for this intimacy which it was too late to 
break—at least this was not the time to break it with 
money becoming unbelievably scarcer every day and a 
great railroad man talking angrily, and another great 
railroad man preaching caution at a time when the cau- 
tion of the man in the Street might mean something so 
serious to Dysart that he didn’t care to think about it. 

Dysart had gone back to New York in company 
with several pessimistic gentlemen—who were very open 
about backing their fancy; and their fancy fell on that 

270 


THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








old, ramshackle jade, Hard Times, by Speculation out 
of Folly. According to them there was no hope of her 
being scratched or left at the post. 

** She’ll run like a scared hearse-horse,” said young 
Grandcourt gloomily. There was reason for his gloom. 
Unknown to his father he had invested heavily in 
Dysart’s schemes. It was his father’s contempt that he 
feared more than ruin. ; 

So Dysart had gone to town, leaving behind him the 
utter indifference of a wife, the deep contempt of a 
man; and a white-faced girl alone with her memories— 
whatever they might be—and her thoughts, which were 
painful if one might judge by her silent, rigid abstrac- 
tion, and the lower lip which, at moments, escaped, 
quivering, from the close-set teeth. 

When Duane rose, folding his paper with a care- 
lessly pleasant word or two, she looked up in a kind of 
naive terror—like a child startled at prospect of being 
left alone. It was curious how those adrift seemed al- 
ways to glide his way. It had always been so; even 
stray cats followed him in the streets; unhappy dogs 
trotted persistently at his heels; many a journey had 
he made to the Bide-a-wee for some lost creature’s sake ; 
many a softly purring cat had he caressed on his way 
through life—many a woman. 

As he strolled toward the eastern end of the terrace, 
Sylvia looked after him; and, suddenly, unable to en- 
dure isolation, she rose and followed as instinctively as 
her lesser sisters-errant. 

It was the trotting of little footsteps behind him on 
the gravel that arrested him. A glance at her face was 
enough; vexed, shocked, yet every sympathy instantly 
aroused, he resigned himself to whatever might be re- 
quired of him; and wthin him a bitter mirth stirred— 

271 


> 


THE DANGER MARK 








acrid, unpleasant; but his smile indicated only charmed 
surprise. 

**T didn’t suppose you’d care for a stroll with me,” 
he said; “‘ it is exceedingly nice of you to give me the 
chance.” 

“JT didn’t want to be left alone,’’ she said. 

“It is rather quiet here since our gay birds have 
migrated,” he said in a matter-of-fact way. ‘‘ Which 
direction shall we take? ” 

** I—don’t care.” 

“The woods? ” 

** No,” with a shudder so involuntary that he no- 
ticed it. 

“Well, then, we’ll go cross country 

She looked at her thin, low shoes and then at him. 

** Certainly,” he said, “ that won’t do, will it?” 

She shook her head. 

They were passing the Lodge now where his studio 
was and where he had intended to pack up his can- 
vases that afternoon. | 

“Tl brew you a cup of tea if you like,” he said; 
“that is, if it’s not too unconventional to frighten 
you.” 

She smiled and nodded. Behind the smile her heavy 
thoughts throbbed on: How much did this man know? 
How much did he suspect? And if he suspected, 
how good he was in every word to her—how kind and 
gentle and high-minded! And the anguish in her smile 
caused him to turn hastily to the door and summon old 
Miller to bring the tea paraphernalia. : 

There was nothing to look at in the studio; all the 
canvases lay roped in piles ready for the crates; but 
Sylvia’s. gaze remained on them as though even the 
rough backs of the stretchers fascinated her. 

272 


29 





THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








“My father was an artist. After he married he 
did not paint. My mother was very wealthy, you 
know. . . . It seems a pity.” 

“What? Wealth?” he asked, smiling. 

‘*“N-no. I mean it seems a little tragic to me that 
father never continued to paint.” 

Miller’s granddaughter came in with the tea. She 
was a very little girl with yellow hair and big violet 
eyes. After she had deposited everything, she went over 
to Duane and held up her mouth to be kissed. He 
laughed and saluted her. It was a reward for service 
which she had suggested when he first came to Roya- 
Neh; and she trotted away in great content. 

Sylvia’s indifferent gaze followed her; then she 
sipped the tea Duane offered. 

“Do you remember your father?” he asked pleas- 
antly. 

“Why, yes. I was fourteen when he died. I re- 
member mother, too. I was seven.” 

Duane said, not looking at her: “It’s about the 
toughest thing that can happen to a girl. It’s tough 
enough on a boy.” 

“It was very hard,” she said simply. 

* Haven’t you any relatives except your brother 
Stuyvesant—” he began, and checked himself, remem- 
bering that a youthful aunt of hers had eloped under 
scandalous circumstances, and at least one uncle was 
too notorious even for the stomachs of the society that 
whelped him. 

She let it pass in silence, as though she had not 
heard. Later she declined more tea and sat deep in her 
chair, fingers linked under her chin, lids lowered. 

After a while, as she did not move or speak, he ven- 
tured to busy himself with collecting his brushes, odds 

273 


THE DANGER MARK 








and ends of studio equipment. He scraped several 
palettes, scrubbed up some palette-knives, screwed the 
tops on a dozen tubes of colour, and fussed and messed 
about until there seemed to be nothing further to do. 
So he came back and seated himself, and, looking up, 
saw the big tears stealing from under her closed lids. 

He endured it as long as he could. Nothing was 
said. He leaned nearer and laid his hand over hers; 
and at the contact she slipped from the chair, slid to 
her knees, and laid her head on the couch beside him, 
both hands covering her face, which had turned dead 
white. 

Minute after minute passed with no sound, no move- 
ment except as he passed his hand over her forehead 
and hair. He knew what to do when those who were 
adrift floated into Port Mallett. And sometimes he 
did more than was strictly required, but never less. 
Toward sundown she began to feel blindly for her hand- 
kerchief. He happened to possess a fresh one and put 
it into her groping hand. 

When she was ready to rise she did so, keeping her 
back toward him and standing for a while busy with 
her swollen eyes and disordered hair. 

“‘ Before we go we must have tea together again,” 
he said with perfectly matter-of-fact cordiality. 

*“'Y-yes.” The voice was very, very small. 

“ And in town, too, Sylvia. I had no idea what a 
companionable girl you are—how much we have in com- 
mon. You know silence is the great test of mutual con- 
fidence and understanding. You'll let me see you in 
town, won’t you? ” 

66 Yes.” 

“That will be jolly. I suppose now that you and 
I ought to be thinking about dressing for dinner.” 

274 


THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








She assented, moved away a step or two, halted, 
and, still with her back turned, held out her hand be- 
hind her. He took it, bent and kissed it. 

“* See you at dinner,” he said cheerfully. 

And she went out very quietly, his handkerchief 
pressed against her eyes. 

He came back into the studio, swung nervous- 
ly toward the couch, turned and began to pace the 
floor. 

“ Oh, Lord,” he said; * the rottenness of it all—the 
utter rottenness.” 


Dinner that night was not a very gay function; 
after coffee had been served, the small group seemed 
to disintegrate as though by some prearrangement, 
Rosalie and Grandcourt finding a place for themselves 
in the extreme western shadow of the terrace parapet, 
Kathleen returning to the living-room, where she had 
left her embroidery. 

Scott, talking to Sylvia and Duane, continued to 
cast restless glances toward the living-room until he 
could find the proper moment to get away. And in a 
few minutes Duane saw him seated, one leg crossed over 
the other, a huge volume on “ Scientific Conservation of 
Natural Resources ” open on his knees, seated as close 
to Kathleen as he could conveniently edge, perfectly 
contented, apparently, to be in her vicinity. 

From moment to moment, as her pretty hands per- 
formed miracles in tinted silks, she lifted her eyes and 
silently inspected the boy who sat absorbed in his book. 
Perhaps old memories of a child seated in the school- 
room made tender the curve of her lips as she turned 
again to her embroidery; perhaps a sentiment more re- 
cent made grave the beautiful lowered eyes. 

275 


THE DANGER MARK 








Sylvia, seated at the piano, idly improvising, had 
unconsciously drifted into the “ Menuet d’Exaudet,” 
and Duane’s heart began to quicken as he stood listen- 
ing and looking out through the open windows at the 
stars. 

How long he stood there he did not know; but when, 
at length, missing the sound of the piano, he looked 
around, Sylvia was already on the stairs, looking back 
at him as she moved upward. 

** Good-night,”’ she called softly ; “ I am very tired,” 
and paused as he came forward and mounted to the 
step below where she waited. 

** Good-night, Miss Quest,” he said, with that nice 
informality that women always found so engaging. “ If 
you have nothing better on hand in the morning, let’s 
go for aclimb. I’ve discovered a wild-boar’s nest under 
the Golden Dome, and if you’d like to get a glimpse of 
the little, furry, striped piglings, I think we can man- 
age it.” 

She thanked him with her eyes, held out her thin, 
graceful hand of a schoolgirl, then turned slowly and 
continued her ascent. 

As he descended, Kathleen, looking up from her em- 
broidery, made him a sign, and he stood still. 

“Where are you going?” asked Scott, as she rose 
and passed him. 

*1’m coming back in a moment.” 

Scott restlessly resumed his book, raising his head 
from time to time as though listening for her return, 
fidgeting about, now examining the embroidery she had 
left on the lamp-lit table, now listlessly running over 
the pages that had claimed his close attention while she 
had been near him. 

Across the hall, in the library, Duane stood absently 

276 


THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








twisting an unlighted cigar, and Kathleen, her hand 
on his shoulder, eyes lifted in sweet distress, was search- 
ing for words that seemed to evade her. 

He cut the knot without any emotion: 

‘1 know what you are trying to say, Kathleen. It 
is true that there has been a wretched misunderstanding, 
but if I know Geraldine at all I know that a mere mis- 
understanding will not do any permanent harm. It is 
something else that—worries me.” 

“Oh, Duane, I know! I know! She cannot marry 
you—in honour—until that—that terrible danger is 
eliminated. She will not, either. But—don’t give her 
up! Be with her—with us in this crisis—during it! 
See us through it, Duane; she is well worth what she 
costs us both—and costs herself.” 

“She must marry me now,” he said. “I want to 
fight this thing with all there is in me and in her, and in 
my love for her and hers for me. I can’t fight it in 
this blind, aloof way—this thing that is my rival—that 
stands with its claw embedded in her body warning me 
back! The horror of it is in the blind, intangible, ab- 
stract force that is against me. I can’t fight it aloof 
from her; I can’t take her away from it unless I have 
her in my arms to guard, to inspire, to comfort, to 
watch. Can’t you see, Kathleen, that I must have her 
every second of the time? ” 

“She will not let you run the risk,” murmured 
Kathleen. “ Duane, she had a dreadful night—she 
broke down so utterly that it scared me. She is hor- 
ribly frightened; her nervous demoralisation is com- 
plete. For the first time, I think, she is really terrified. 
She says it is hopeless, that her will and nerve are un- 
dermined, her courage contaminated. . . . Hour after 
hour I sat with her; she made me tell her about her 


277 


THE DANGER MARK 








grandfather—about what I knew of the—the taint in 
her family.” 

“ Those things are merely predispositions,” he said. 
“* Self-command makes them harmless.” 

“J told her that. She says that they are living 
sparks that will smoulder while life endures.” 

“Suppose they are,” he said; “they can never 
flame unless nursed. . .. Kathleen, I want to see 
her: se 

“ She will not.” 

** Has she spoken at all of me? ” 

(T4 Yes.” 

“ Bitterly? ” 

*“'Y-yes. I don’t know what you did. She is very 
morbid just now, anyway; very desperate. But I know 
that, unconsciously, she counts on an adjustment of 
any minor personal difficulty with you. . . . She loves 
you dearly, Duane.” 

He passed an unsteady hand across his eyes. 

“She must marry me. I can’t stand aloof from this 
battle any longer.” ; 

** Duane, she will not. I—she said some things— 
she is morbid, I tell you—and curiously innocent—in her 
thoughts—concerning herself and you. She says she 
can never marry.” 

“Exactly what did she say to you? ” 

Kathleen hesitated; the intimacy of the subject left 
her undecided ; then very seriously her pure, clear gaze 
met his: 

** She will not marry, for your own sake, and for the 
sake of any—children. She has evidently thought it 
all out. . . . I must tell you how it is. There is no 
use in asking her; she will never consent, Duane, as long 
as she is afraid of herself. And how to quiet that fear 

278 





THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








by exterminating the reason for it I don’t know—” 
Her voice broke pitifully. “ Only stand by us, Duane. 
Don’t go away just now. You were packing to go; 
but please don’t leave me just yet. Could you arrange 
to remain for a while? ” 

“Yes, I'll arrange it. ... Tm a little troubled 
about my father—” He checked himself. “I could 
run down to town for a day or two and return 2 

“Ts Colonel Mallett ill? ” she asked. 

““N-no. . . . These are rather strenuous times—or 
threaten to be. Of course the Half-Moon is as solid as 
a rock. But even the very, very great are beginning 
to fuss... . And my father is not young, Kathleen. 
So I thought I’d like to run down and take him out to 
dinner once or twice—to a roof-garden or something, 
you know. It’s rather pathetic that men of his age, 
grown gray in service, should feel obliged to remain in 
the stifling city this summer.” 

“Of course you must go,” she said; “ you couldn’t 
even hesitate. Is your mother worried? ” 

“‘J don’t suppose she has the slightest notion that 
there is anything to worry over. And there isn’t, I 
think. She and Naida will be in the Berkshires; Pll go 
up and stay with them later—when Geraldine is all 
right again,” he added cheerfully. 

Scott, fidgeting like a neglected pup, came wander- 
ing into the hall, book in hand. 

“ For the love of Mike,” he said impatiently, “ what 
have you two got to talk about all night? ” 

‘“* My son,” observed Duane, “ there are a few sub- 
jects for conversation which do not include the centi- 
pede and the polka-dotted dickey-bird. These subjects 
Kathleen and I furtively indulge in when we can ar- 
range to elude you.” 


19 279 





THE DANGER MARK 








Scott covered a yawn and glanced at Kathleen. 

“Is Geraldine all right?” he asked with all the 
healthy indifference of a young man who had never 
been ill, and was, therefore, incapable of understanding 
illness in others. 

“ Certainly, she’s all right,” said Duane. And to 
Kathleen: “I believe Tl venture to knock at her 
door és 

“Oh, no, Duane. She isn’t ready to see any- 
body 

“Well, I'll try 

** Please, don’t!” 

But he had her at a disadvantage, and he only 
laughed and mounted the stairs, saying: 

“Tl just enero a word with her or with sia 
maid, anyway.” 

When he turned into the corridor Geraldine’s maid, 
seated in the window-seat sewing, rose and came for- 
ward to take his message. In a few moments she re- 
turned, saying: 

** Miss Seagrave asks to be excused, as she is ready 
to retire.” 

* Ask Miss Seagrave if I can say good-night to her 
through the door.” 

The maid disappeared and returned in a moment. 

“Miss Seagrave wishes you good-night, sir.” 

So he thanked the maid pleasantly and walked to 
his own room, now once more prepared for him after 
the departure of those who had temporarily required it. 

Starlight made the leaded windows brilliant; he 
opened them wide and leaned out on the sill, arms folded. 
The pale astral light illuminated a fairy world of 
meadow and garden and spectral trees, and two figures 
moving like ghosts down by the fountain among the 

280 











THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








roses—Rosalie and Grandcourt pacing the gravel paths 
shoulder to shoulder under the stars. 

Below him, on the terrace, he saw Kathleen and 
Scott—the latter carrying a butterfly net—examining 
the borders of white pinks with a lantern. In and out 
of the yellow rays swam multitudes of night moths, 
glittering like flakes of tinsel as the lantern light flashed 
on their wings; and Scott was evidently doing satis- 
factory execution, for every moment or two Kathleen 
uncorked the cyanide jar and he dumped into it from 
the folds of the net a fluttering victim. 

*“ That last one is a Pandorus Sphinx!” he said in 
great excitement to Kathleen, who had lifted the big 
glass jar into the lantern light and was trying to get 
a glimpse of the exquisite moth, whose wings of olive 
green, rose, and bronze velyet were already beating a 
hazy death tattoo in the lethal fumes. 

“A Pandorus! Scott, you’ve wanted one so 
much!” she exclaimed, enchanted. | 

“You bet I have. Pholus pandorus is pretty rare 
around here. And I say, Kathleen, that wasn’t a bad 
net-stroke, was it? You see I had only a second, and 
I took a desperate chance.” 

She praised his skill warmly; then, as he stood ad- 
miring his prize in the jar which she held up, she sud- 
denly caught him by the arm and pointed: 

“Oh, quick! There is a hawk-moth over the pinks 
which resembles nothing we have seen yet!” 

Scott very cautiously laid his net level, stole for- 
ward, shining the lantern light full on the darting, 
hazy-winged creature, which was now poised, hovering 
over a white blossom and probing the honeyed depths 
with a long, slim proboscis. __ 

“TI thought it might be only a Lineata, but it isn’t,” 

281 


THE DANGER MARK 








he said excitedly. ‘ Did you ever see such a timid 
moth? The slightest step scares the creature.” 

* Can’t you try a quick net-stroke sideways?” 

Her voice was as anxious and unsteady as his own. 

“Tm afraid Pll miss. Lord but it’s a lightning 
flier! Where is it now? ” 

“ Behind you. Do be careful! Turn very slowly.” 

He pivoted; the slim moth darted past, circled, and 
hung before a blossom, wings vibrating so fast that the 
creature was merely a gray blur in the lantern light. 
The next instant Gray’s net swung; a furious flutter- 
ing came from the green silk folds; Kathleen whipped 
off the cover of the jar, and Duane deftly imprisoned 
the moth. 

“Upon my word,” he said shakily, “I believe I’ve 
got a Tersa Sphinx !—a sub-tropical fellow whose pres- 
ence here is mere accident!” 

* Oh, if you have!” she breathed softly. She didn’t 
know what a Tersa Sphinx might be, but if its capture 
gave him pleasure, that was all she cared for in the 
— world. 

“It is a Tersa!” he almost shouted. ‘“ By George! 
it’s a wonder.” 

Radiant, she bent eagerly above the jar where the 
strange, slender, gray-and-brown hawk-moth lay dying. 
Its recoiling proboscis and its slim, fawn-coloured 
legs quivered. The eyes glowed like tiny jewels. 

“If we could only keep these little things alive,” 
she sighed; then, fearful of taking the least iota from 
his pleasure, added: “‘ but of course we can’t, and for 
scientific purposes it’s all right to let the lovely little 
creatures sink into their death-sleep.” 

A slight haze had appeared over the lake; a sudden 
cool streak grew in the air, which very quickly cleared 

282 


THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








the flower-beds of moths; and the pretty sub-tropical 
sphinx was the last specimen of the evening. 

In the library Scott pulled out a card-table and 
Kathleen brought forceps, strips of oiled paper, pins, 
setting-blocks, needles, and oblong glass weights; and 
together, seated opposite each other, they removed the 
delicate-winged contents of the collecting jar. 

Kathleen’s dainty fingers were very swift and deft 
with the forceps. Scott watched her. She picked up 
the green-and-rose Pandorus, laid it on its back on a 
setting-block, affixed and pinned the oiled-paper strips, 
drew out the four wings with the setting-needle until 
they were symmetrical and the inner margin of the an- 
terior pair was at right angles with the body. ‘ 

Then she arranged the legs, uncoiled and set the 
proboscis, and weighted the wings with heavy glass 
strips. 

They worked rapidly, happily there together, ex- 
changing views and opinions; and after a while the 
brilliant spoils of the evening were all stretched and 
ready to dry, ultimately to be placed in plaster-of-Paris 
mounts and hermetically sealed under glass covers. 

Kathleen went away to cleanse her hands of any 
taint of cyanide; Scott, returning from his own ablu- 
tions, met her in the hall, and so miraculously youthful, 
so fresh and sweet and dainty did she appear that, in 
some inexplicable manner, his awkward, self-conscious 
fear of touching her suddenly vanished, and the next in- 
stant she was in his arms and he had kissed her. 

“Scott!” she faltered, pushing him from her, too 
limp and dazed to use the strength she possessed. 

Surprised at what he had done, amazed that he was 
not afraid of her, he held her tightly, thrilled dumb at 
the exquisite trembling contact. 

283 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Oh, what are you doing,” she stammered, in dire 
consternation; ** what have you done? We—you can- 
not—you must let me go, Scott ie 

* You’re only a girl, after all—you darling!” he 
said, inspecting her in an ecstacy of curiosity. “I 
wonder why I’ve been afraid of you for so long?—just 
because I love you!” 

* You don’t—you can’t care for me that way 

“I care for you in every kind of a way that any- 
body can care about anybody.” She turned her shoul- 
der, desperately striving to release herself, but she had 
not realised how tall and strong he was. ‘ How small 
you are,” he repeated wonderingly ; “ just a soft, slen- 
der girl, Kathleen. I can’t see how I ever came to let 
you make me study when I didn’t want to.” 

“Scott, dear,” she pleaded breathlessly, “ you must 
let me go. This—this is utterly impossible——” 

What is?” 

“That you and I can—could care—this way 

* Don’t you?” 

6 I—no ! 9 

“Ts that the truth, Kathleen? ” 

She looked up; the divine distress in her violet eyes 
sobered him, awed him for a moment. 

“‘ Kathleen,” he said, “ there are only a few years’ 
difference between our ages. I feel older than you; you 
look younger than I—and you are all in the world I 
care for—or ever have cared for. Last spring—that 
night “3 

** Hush, Scott,” she begged, blushing scarlet. 

“I know you remember. That is when I began to 
love you. You must have known it.” 

She said nothing; the strain of her resisting arms 
against his breast had relaxed imperceptibly. 

284 





” 





bed 








THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








“What can a fellow say?” he went on a little 
wildly, checked at moments by the dryness of his throat 
and the rapid heartbeats that almost took his breath 
away when he looked at her. “I love you so dearly, 
Kathleen; there’s no use in trying to live without lov- 
ing you, for I couldn’t do it!... Vm not really 
young; it makes me furious to think you consider me in 
that light. I’m a man, strong enough and old enough 
to love you—and make you love me! I will make you!” 
His arms tightened. 

She uttered a little cry, which was half a sob; his 
boyish roughness sent a glow rushing through her. She 
fought against the peril of it, the bewildering happiness 
that welled up—fought against her heart that was be- 
traying her senses, against the deep, sweet passion that 
awoke as his face touched hers. 

** Will you love me? ” he said fiercely. 

<é No ! 39 

* Will you? ” 

“Yes. . . . Let me go!” she gasped. 

** Will you love me in the way I mean? Can you?” 

“Yes. I do. I—have, long since. ... Let me 
go ! 29 

“ Then—kiss me.” 

She looked up at him a moment, slowly put both 
arms around his neck: “ Now,” she breathed faintly, 
“release me.” 

And at the same instant he saw Geraldine descend- 
ing the stairs. 

Kathleen saw her, too; saw her turn abruptly, re- 
mount and disappear. There was a moment’s painful 
silence, then, without a word, she picked up her lace 
skirts, ran up the stairway, and continued swiftly on to 
Geraldine’s room. 

285 


THE DANGER MARK 








“May I come in?” She spoke and opened the door 
of the bedroom at the same time, and Geraldine turned 
on her, exasperated, hands clenched, dark eyes harbour- 
ing lightning: 

“* Have I gone quite mad, Kathleen, or have you? ” 
she demanded. 

“‘ T think I have,” whispered Kathleen, turning white 
and halting. “ Geraldine, you will have to listen. Scott 
has told me that he loves me si 

Ts this the first time? ” 

“No... . It is the first time I have listened. I 
can’t think clearly; I scarcely know yet what I’ve said 
and done. What must you think? . . . But won’t you 
be a little gentle with me—a little forbearing—in mem- 
ory of what I have been to you—to him—so long? ” 

* What do you wish me to think?” asked the girl 
in a hard voice. ‘“ My brother is of age; he will do 
what he pleases, I suppose. I—I don’t know what to 
think; this has astounded me. I never dreamed such 
a thing possible——” 

* Nor I—until this spring. I know it is all wrong; 
this is making me more fearfully unhappy every min- 
ute I live. There is nothing but peril in it; the dis- 
crepancy in our ages makes it hazardous—his youth, 
his overwhelming fortune, my position and means—the 
world will surely, surely misinterpret, misunderstand— 
I think even you, his sister, may be led to credit—what, 
in your own heart, you must know to be utterly and 
cruelly untrue.” 

‘I don’t know what to say or think,” repeated Ger- 
aldine in a dull voice. “I can’t realise it; I thought 
that our affection for you was so—so utterly different.” 

She stared curiously at Kathleen, trying to recon- 
cile what she had always known of her with what she 

286 





THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








now had to reckon with—strove to find some alteration 
in the familiar features, something that she had never 
before noticed, some new, unsuspected splendour of 
beauty and charm, some undetected and subtle allure. 
She saw only a wholesome, young, and lovely woman, 
fresh-skinned, slender, sweet, and graceful—the same 
companion she had always known and, as she remem- 
bered, unchanged in any way since the years of child- 
hood, when Kathleen was twenty and she and her 
brother were ten. 

“T suppose,” she said, “ that if Scott is in love with 
you, there is only one thing to do.” 

“There are several,’ said Kathleen in a low voice. 

* Will you not marry him? ” 

“T don’t know; I think not.” 

“* Are you not in love with him? ” 

“Does that matter?” asked Kathleen steadily. 
** Scott’s happiness is what is important.” 

** But his happiness, apparently, depends on you.” 

Kathleen flushed and looked at her curiously. 

“ Dear, if I knew that was so, I would give myself 
to him. Neither you nor he have ever asked anything 
of me in vain. Even if I did not love him—as I do—and 
he needed me, I would give myself to him. You and he 
have been all there was in life for me. But I am afraid 
that I may not always be all that life holds for him. 
He is young; he has had no chance yet; he has had 
little experience with women. I think he ought to have 
his chance.” 

She might have said the same thing of herself. A 
bride at her husband’s death-bed, widowed before she 
had ever been a wife, what experience had she? All her 
life so far had been devoted to the girl who stood there 
confronting her, and to the brother. What did she 

20 287 


THE DANGER MARK 








know of .men?—of whether she might be capable of loy- 
ing some man more suitable? She had not given her- 
self the chance. She never would, now. 

There was no selfishness in Kathleen Severn. But 
there was much in the Seagrave twins. The very method 
of their bringing up inculcated it; they. had never had 
any chance to be otherwise. The “ cultiwation of the 
indiwidool ” had driven it into them, taught them the 
deification of self, forced them to consider their own 
importance above anything else in the world. 

And it was of that importance that Geraldine was 
now thinking as she sat on the edge of her bed, darkly 
considering these new problems that chance was laying 
before her one by one. 

If Scott was going to be unhappy without Kath- 
leen, it followed, as a matter of course, that he must 
have Kathleen. The chances Kathleen might take, what 
she might have to endure of the world’s malice and gos- 
sip and criticism, never entered Geraldine’s mind at all. 

“Tf he is in love with you,” she repeated, “ it settles 
it, I think. What else is there to do but marry him?” 

Kathleen shook her head. “TI shall do what is best 
for him—whatever that may be.” 

* You won’t make him unhappy, I suppose?” in- 
quired Geraldine, astonished. 

** Dear, a woman may be truer to the man she loves 
—and kinder—by refusing him. Is not that what you 
have done—for Duane’s sake? ” 

Geraldine sprang to her feet, face white, mouth dis- 
torted with anger: 

“TI made a god of Duane!” she broke out breath- 
lessly. ‘“‘ Everything that was in me—everything that 
was decent and unselfish and pure-minded dominated 
me when I found I loved him. So I would not listen 

288 


THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








to my own desire for him, I would not let him risk a 
terrible unhappiness until I could go to him as clean 
and well and straight and unafraid as he could wish!” 
She laughed bitterly, and laid her hands on her breast. 
“Look at me, Kathleen! I am quite as decent as this 
god of mine. Why should I worry over the chances 
he takes when I have chances enough to take in marry- 
ing him? I was stupid to be so conscientious—I be- 
haved like a hysterical schoolgirl—or a silly communi- 
cant—making him my confessor! <A girl is a perfect 
fool to make a god out of a man. I made one out of 
Duane; and he acted like one. It nearly ended me, but, 
after all, he is no worse than I. Whoever it was who. 
said that decency is only depravity afraid, is right. I 
am depraved; I am afraid. I’m afraid that I cannot. 
control myself, for one thing; and I’m afraid of being 
unhappy for life if I don’t marry Duane. And I’m 
going to, and let him take his chances!” 

Kathleen, very pale, said: “ That is selfishness—if 
you do it.” 

* Are not men selfish? He will not tell me as much 
of his life as I have told him of mine. I have told him. 
everything. How do I know what risk I run? Yes— 
I do know; I take the risk of marrying a man notorious. 
for his facility with women. And he lets me take that 
risk. Why should I not let him risk something? ” 

The girl seemed strangely excited; her quick breath- 
ing and bright, unsteady eyes betrayed the nervous ten-- 
sion of the last few days. She said feverishly: 

“There is a lot of nonsense talked about self-sacri- 
fice and love; about the beauties of abnegation and 
martyrdom, but, Kathleen, if I shall ever need him at. 
all, I need him now. I’m afraid to be alone any longer; 
I’m frightened at the chances against me. Do you know 

289 


THE DANGER MARK 








what these days of horror have been to me, locked in 
here—all alone—in the depths of degradation for what 
—what I did that night—in distress and shame unut- 
terable——” 

** My darlin is 

“Wait! I had more to endure—I had to en- 
dure the results of my education in the study of man! 
I had to realise that I loved one of them who has done 
enough to annihilate in me anything except love. I 
had to learn that he couldn’t kill that—that I want him 
in spite of it, that I need him, that my heart is sick 
with dread; that he can have me when he will— Oh, 
Kathleen, I have learned to care less for him than when 
I denied him for his own sake—more for him than I did 
before he held me in his arms! And that is not a high 
type of love—I know it—but oh, if I could only have 
his arms around me—if I could rest there for a while 
—and not feel se frightened, so utterly alone!—I might 
win out; I might kill what is menacing me, with God’s 
help—and his!” 

She lay shivering on Kathleen’s breast now, dry- 
eyed, twisting her ringless fingers in dumb anguish. 

* Darling, darling,” murmured Kathleen, “ you 
cannot do this thing. You cannot let him assume a 
burden that is yours alone.” 

* Why not? What is one’s lover for? ” 

“ Not to use; not to hazard; not to be made re- 
sponsible for a sick mind and a will already demoral- 
ised. Is it fair to ask him—to let him begin life with 
such a burden—such a handicap? Is it not braver, 
fairer, to fight it out alone, eradicate what threatens 
you—oh, my own darling! my little Geraldine!—is it 
not fairer to the man you love? Is he not worth striv- 
ing for, suffering for? Have you no courage to endure 

290 





THE LOVE OF THE GODS 








if he is to be the reward? Is a little selfish weakness, a 
miserable self-indulgence to stand between you and life- 
long happiness? ” 

Geraldine looked up; her face was very white: 

“Have you ever been tempted? ” 

“* Have I not been to-night? ” 

“T mean by—something ignoble? ” 

66 No.” 

“Do you know how it hurts?” 

“ To—to deny yourself? ” 

“Yes. ... It is so—difficult—it makes me 
wretchedly weak. . .. I only thought he might help 
me.... You are right, Kathleen. ...I must be 
terribly demoralised to have wished it. I—I will not 
marry him, now. I don’t think I ever will. ... You 
are right. I have got to be fair to him, no matter what 
he has been to me. . . . He has been fearfully unfair. 
After all, he is only a man. . . . I couldn’t really love 
a god.” 


CHAPTER XIII 
AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 


Rosatre had departed; Grandcourt followed suit 
next day; Sylvia’s brother, Stuyvesant, had at last 
found a sober moment at his disposal and had appeared 
at Roya-Neh and taken his sister away. Duane was 
all ready to go to New York to find out whether his 
father was worrying over anything, as the tone of his 
letters indicated. 

The day he left, Kathleen and Geraldine started on 
a round of August house parties, ranging from Lenox 
to Long Island, including tiresome week ends and duty 
visits to some very unpretentious but highly intellectual 
relatives of Mrs. Severn. So Scott remained in solitary 
possession of Roya-Neh, with its forests, gardens, pas- 
tures, lakes and streams, and a staggering payroll and 
all the multiplicity of problems that such responsibility. 
entails. Which pleased him immensely, except for the 
departure of Kathleen. 

To play the intellectual country squire had been all 
he desired on earth except Kathleen. From the begin- 
ning White’s “ Selborne ” had remained his model for 
all books, Kathleen for all women. He was satisfied 
with these two components of perfect happiness, and 
with himself, as he was, for the third ingredient in a 
contented and symmetrical existence. 

He had accepted his answer from her with more 
philosophy than she quite expected or was prepared 

292 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








for, saying that if she made a particular point of it he 
would go about next winter and give himself a chance to 
meet as many desirable young girls as she thought 
best ; that it was merely wasting time, but if it made her 
any happier, he’d wait and endeavour to return to their 
relations of unsentimental comradeship until she was 
satisfied he knew his mind. 

Kathleen was, at first, a little dismayed at his com- 
placency. It was only certainty of himself. At twenty- 
two there is time for anything, and the vista of life 
ahead is endless. And there was one thing more which 
Kathleen did not know. Under the covering of this 
Seagrave complacency and self-centred sufficiency, all 
alone by itself was developing the sprouting germ of 
consideration for others. 

How it started he himself did not know—nor was he 
even aware that it had started. But long, solitary 
rambles and the quiet contemplation of other things be- 
sides himself had awakened first curiosity, then a dawn- 
ing suspicion of the rights of others. 

In the silence of forests it is difficult to preserve 
complacency ; under the stars modesty is born. 

It began to occur to him, by degrees, that his own 
personal importance among his kind might be due, in 
part, to his fortune. And from the first invasion of 
that shocking idea matters progressed rather rapidly 
with the last of the Seagraves. 

He said uneasily to Duane, once: “ Are you going 
in seriously for painting? ” 

“I am in,” observed Duane drily. 

** Professionally? ” 

“ Sure thing. God hates an amateur.” 

“What are you after?” persisted Scott. “ Fame?” 

“Yes; I need it in my business.” 

293 


THE DANGER MARK 








** Are you contemplating a velvet coat and bow tie, 
and a bunch of the elect at your heels?—ratty men, and 
pop-eyed young women whose coiffure needs weeding? ” 

Duane laughed. ‘“ Are they any more deadly than 
our own sort? Why endure either? Because you are 
developing into a country squire, you don’t have to 
marry Maud Muller.” And he quoted Bret Harte: 


“For there be women fair as she, 
Whose verbs and nouns do more agree.” 


**'You don’t have to wallow in a profession, you 
know.” 

* But why the mischief do you want to paint pro- 
fessionally? ” inquired Scott, with unsatisfied curiosity. 
“Tt isn’t avarice, is it? ” 

“TI expect to hold out for what my pictures are 
worth, if that’s what you mean by avarice. What I’m 
trying to do,” added Duane, striking his palm with his 
fist as emphasis, “is not to die the son of a wealthy 
man. If I can’t be anything more, I’m not worth a 
damn. But I’m going to be. I can do it, Scott; I’m 
lazy, I’m undecided, I’ve a weak streak. And yet, do 
you know, with all my blemishes, all my misgivings, all 
my discouragements, panics, despondent moments, I 
am, way down inside, serenely and unaccountably cer- 
tain that I can paint like the devil, and that I am going 
to = it. That sounds cheeky, doesn’t it? ” 

“It sounds all right to me,” said Scott. And he 
walked away thoughtfully, fists dug deep in his pockets. 

And one still, sunny afternoon, standing alone on 
the dry granite crags of the Golden Dome, he looked 
up and saw, a quarter of a million miles above him, the 
moon’s ghost swimming in azure splendour. Then he 

294 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








looked down and saw the map of the earth below him, 
where his forests spread out like moss, and his lakes 
mirrored the clouds, and a river belonging to him 
traced its course across the valley in a single silver 
thread. And a slight blush stung his face at the 
thought that, without any merit or endeavour of his 
own, his money had bought it all—his money, that had 
always acted as his deputy, fought for him, conquered 
for him, spoken for him, vouched for him—perhaps 
pleaded for him !—he shivered, and suddenly he realised 
that this golden voice was, in fact, all there was to him. 

What had he to identify him on earth among man- 
kind? Only his money. Wherein did he differ from 
other men? He had more money. What had he to offer 
as excuse for living at all? Money. What had he 
done? Lived on it, by it. Why, then, it was the money 
that was entitled to distinction, and he figured only as 
its parasite! Then he was nothing—even a little less. 
In the world there was man and there was money. It 
seemed that he was a little lower in the scale than either ; 
a parasite—scarcely a thing of distinction to offer 
Kathleen Severn. 

Very seriously he looked up at the moon. 

It was the day following his somewhat disordered 
and impassioned declaration. He expected to receive 
his answer that evening; and he descended the mountain 
in a curiously uncertain and perplexed state of mind 
which at times bordered on a modesty painfully akin to 
humbleness. 

Meanwhile, Duane was preparing to depart on the 
morrow. And that evening he also was to have his 
definite answer to the letter which Kathleen had taken 
to Geraldine Seagrave that morning. 

“ Dear,” he had written, “I once told you that my 

295 


THE DANGER MARK 








weakness needed the aid of all that is best in you; that 
yours required the best of courage and devotion that lies 
in me. It is surely so. Together we conquer the world 
—which is ourselves. 

“For the little things that seem to threaten our 
separation do not really alarm me. Even if I actually 
committed the inconsequential and casual thing that so 
abruptly and so deeply offended you, there remains 
enough soundness in me at the core to warrant your 
charity and repay, in a measure, your forgiveness and 
a renewal of your interest in my behalf. 

“Search your heart, Geraldine; question your intel- 
ligence ; both will tell you that I am enough of a man to 
dare love you. And it takes something of a man to 
dare do it. 

“ There is a thing that I might say which would con- 
vince you, even against the testimony of your own eyes, 
that never in deed or in thought have I been really dis- 
loyal to you since you gave me your heart. ... Yet I 
must not say it. . . . Can you summon sufficient faith 
in me to accept that statement—against the evidence of 
those two divine witnesses which condemn me—your 
eyes? Circumstantial evidence is no good in this case, 
dear. I can say no more than that. 

* Dearest, what can compare to the disaster of losing 
each other? 

““T ask you to let me have the right to stand by you 
in your present distress and despondency. What am I 
for if not for such moments? 

“That night you were closer to the danger mark 
than you have ever been. I know that my conduct—at 
least your interpretation of it—threw you, for the mo- 
ment off your guarded balance; but that your attitude 
toward such a crisis—your solution of such a situation 


296 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








—should be a leap forward toward self-destruction— 
a reckless surrender to anger and blind impulse, only 
makes me the more certain that we need each other 
now if ever. 

“The silent, lonely, forlorn battle that has been 
going on behind the door of your room and the doors 
of your heart during these last few days, is more than I 
can well endure. Open both doors to me; leagued we 
can win through! 

** Give me the right to be with you by night as well 
as by daylight, and we two shall stand together and see 
‘the day break and the shadows flee away.’ ” 

That same evening his reply came: 

“ My darling, Kathleen will give you this. I don’t 
care what my eyes saw if you tell me it isn’t true. I 
have loved you, anyway, all the while—even with my 
throat full of tears and my mouth bitter with anger, and 
my heart torn into several thousand tatters—oh, it is 
not very difficult to love you, Duane; the only trouble 
is to love you in the right way; which is hard, dear, be- 
cause I want you so much; and it so new to me to be 
unselfish. I began to learn by loving you. 

** Which means, that I will not let you take the risk 
you ask for. Give me time; I’ve fought it off since that 
miserable night. Heaven alone knows why I surren- 
dered—turning to my deadly enemy for countenance 
and comfort to support my childish and contemptible 
anger against you. 

** Duane, there is an evil streak in me, and we both 
must reckon with it. Long, long before I knew I loved 
you, things you said and did often wounded me; and 
within me a perfectly unreasoning desire to hurt you— 
to make you suffer—always flamed up and raged. 

“T think that was partly what made me do what you 

297 


THE DANGER MARK 








know I did that night. It would hurt you; that was my 
ignoble instinct. God knows whether it was also a hid- 
eous sort of excuse for my weakness—for I was blazing 
hot after the last dance—and the gaiety and uproar and 
laughter all overexcited me—and then what I had seen 
you do, and your not coming to me, and that ominous 
uneasy impulse stirring! 

“That is the truth as I analyse it. The dreadful 
thing is that I could have been capable of dealing our 
chance of happiness such a cowardly blow. 

“ Well, it is over. The thing has fled for a while. I 
fought it down, stamped on it with utter horror and 
loathing. It—the encounter—tired me. I am weary 
yet—from honourable wounds. But I won out. If it 
comes back again—Oh, Duane! and it surely will—I 
shall face it undaunted once more; and every hydra- 
head that stirs I shall kill until the thing lies dead be- 
tween us for all time. 

“Then, dear, will you take the girl who has done 
this thing? 


** GERALDINE SEAGRAVE.”’ 


This was his answer on the eve of his departure. 

And on the morning of it Geraldine came down to 
say good-bye; a fresh, sweet, and bewildering Geraldine, 
somewhat slimmer than when he had last seen her, a little 
fmer in feature, more delicate of body; and there was 
about her even a hint of the spirituel as a fascinating 
trace of what she had been through, locked in alone 
behind the doors of her room and heart. 

She bade him good-morning somewhat shyly, offer- 
ing her slim hand and looking at him with the slight 
uncertainty and bent brows of a person coming sud- 
denly into a strong light. 

298 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








He said under his breath: “ You poor darling, how 
thin you are.” 

* Athletics,” she said; “ Jacob wrestled with an 
angel, but you know what I’ve been facing in the 
squared circle. Don’t speak of it any more, will you? 

. How sunburned you are! What have you been 
about since I’ve kept to my room? ” 

“T’ve painted Miller’s kids in the open; I suppose 
the terrific influence of Sorolla has me in bondage for 
the moment.” He laughed easily: “ But don’t worry; 
it will leave nothing except clean inspiration behind 
it. Dll think out my own way—grope it out through 
Pantheon and living maze. All I’ve really got to 
say in paint can be said only in my own way. I know 
that, even when realising that I’ve been sunstruck by 
Sorolla.” 

She listened demurely, watching him, her lips sensi- 
tive with understanding; and she laughed when he 
laughed away his fealty to the superb Spaniard, know- 
ing himself and the untried strength within him. 

** But when are you coming back to us, Duane? ” 

* TI don’t know. Father’s letters perplex me. PI 
write you every day, of course.” 

A quick colour tinted her skin: 

* And I will write you every day. I will begin to- 
day. Kathleen and I expect to be here in September. 
But you will come back before that and keep Scott com- 
pany; won’t you?” 

“JT want to get into harness again,” he said slowly. 
“I want to settle down to work.” 

** Can’t you work here? ” 

* Not very well.” 

“ce Why? 9 

“To tell the truth,’ he admitted, smiling, “I 

299 


THE DANGER MARK 








require something more like a working studio than 
Miller’s garret.” 

“That’s what I thought,” she said shyly, “and 
Scott and I have the plans for a studio all ready; and 
the men are to begin Monday, and Miller is to take the 
new gate cottage. Oh, the plans are really very won- 
derful! ” she added hastily, as Duane looked grateful 
but dubious. ‘“ Rollins and Calvert drew them. I wrote 
to Billy Calvert and sent him the original plans for 
Hurryon Lodge. Duane, I thought it would please 
you 99 





** It does, you dear, generous girl! I’m a trifle over- 
whelmed, that’s all nay silence meant. You ought not to 
do this for me——” 

“Why? Aren’t we to be as near each other as we 
can be until—I am ready—for something—closer? ” 

“Yes... . Certainly. ... ll arrange to work 
out certain things up here. As for models, if there is 
nothing suitable at Westgate village, you won’t mind my 
importing some, will you? ” 

“No,” she said, becoming very serious and gravely 
interested, as befitted the fiancée of a painter of conse- 
quence. “ You will do what is necessary, of course; 
because I—few girls—are accustomed in the beginning 
to the details of such a profession as yours; and I’m 
very ignorant, Duane, and I must learn how to second 
you—intelligently ’—she blushed—* that is, if I’m 
to amount to anything as an artist’s wife.” 

“You dear!” he whispered. 

“No; I tell you I am totally ignorant. <A studio is 
an awesome place to me. I merely know enough to keep 
out of it when you are using models. That is safest, 
isn’t it? ” 

He said, intensely amused: “It might be safer 

300 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








not to give pink teas while I am working from the 
nude.” 

* Duane! Do you think me a perfect ninny? Any- 
way, you’re not always painting Venus and Ariadne 
and horrid Ledas, are you? ” 

** Not always!” he managed to assure her; and her 
pretty, confused laughter mingled with his unembar- 
rassed mirth as the motor-car swung up to carry him 
and his traps to the station. » 

They said good-bye; her dark eyes became very 
tragic; her lips threatened to escape control. 

Kathleen turned away, manceuvring Scott out of ear- 
shot, who knowing nothing of any situation between 
Duane and his sister, protested mildly, but forgot when 
Kathleen led him to an orange-underwing moth asleep 
on the stone coping of the terrace. 

And when the unfortunate Catocala had been safely 
bottled and they stood examining it in the library, 
Scott’s rapidly diminishing conceit found utterance: 

** IT say, Kathleen, it’s all very well for me to collect 
these fascinating things, but any ass can do that. One 
can’t make a particular name for one’s self by doing 
what a lot of cleverer men have already done, and what 
a lot of idle idiots are imitating.” 

She raised her violet eyes, astonished: 

* Do you want to make a name for yourself? ” 

* Yes,” he said, reddening. 

* Why not? I’m a nobody. I’m worse; I’m an 
amateur! You ought to hear what Duane has to say 
about amateurs! ” 7 

* But, Scott, you don’t have to be anything in par- 
ticular except what you are——” 

“What am I? ” he demanded. 

“ Why—yourself.” 

301 


THE DANGER MARK 








** And what’s that?’ He grew redder. “I'll tell 
you, Kathleen. I’m merely a painfully wealthy young 
man. Don’t laugh; this is becoming deadly serious to 
me. By my own exertions I’ve never done one bally 
' thing either useful or spectacular. I’m not distinguished 
by anything except an unfair share of wealth. I’m not 
eminent, let alone pre-eminent, even in that sordid class ; 
~ there are richer men, plenty of them—some even who 
have made their own fortunes and have not been hatched 
- out in a suffocating plethora of affluence like the larva 
of the Carnifex tumble-bug 

* Scott!” 

“ And I!” he ended savagely. ‘“ Why, I’m not even 
pre-eminent as far as my position in the social puddle 
is concerned; there are sets that wouldn’t endure me; 
there’s at least one club into which I couldn’t possibly 
wriggle; there are drawing-rooms where I wouldn’t be 
tolerated, because I’ve nothing on earth to recommend 
me or to distinguish me from Algernon FitzNoodle and 
Montmorency de Sansgallette except an inflated in- 
come! What have I to offer anybody worth while for 
entertaining me? What have I to offer you, Kathleen, 
in exchange for yourself? ” 

He was becoming boyishly dramatic with sweeping 
gestures which amazed her; but she was conscious that 
_ it was all sincere and very real to him. 

“ Scott, dear,” she began sweetly, uncertain how to 
take it all; “ kindness, loyalty, and decent breeding are 
all abe a woman cares for in a man 4 

“You are entitled to more; you are entitled to a 
man of distinction, of attainment, of achievement sd 

**Few women ask for that, Scott; few care for it; 
fewer still understand it # . 

“You would. I’ve got a cheek to ask you to marry 

302 














AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








me—me!—before I wear any tag to identify me except 
the dollar mark 

* Oh, hush, Scott! You are talking utter nonsense ; 
don’t you know it? ” 

He made a large and rither grandiose gesture: 

* Around me lies opportunity, Kathleen — every 
stone; every brook 2 

The mischievous laughter of his listener checked 
him. She said: “I’m sorry; only it made me think of 

* Sermons in stones, 
Books in the running brooks,’ 
and the indignant gentleman who said: ‘ What damn 
nonsense! It’s “ sermons in books, stones in the running 
brooks!” ’ Do go on, Scott, dear, I don’t mean to be 
frivolous; it is fine of you to wish for fame——” 

** It isn’t fame alone, although I wouldn’t mind it if- 
I deserved it. It’s that I want to do just one thing 
that amounts to something. I wish you’d give me 
an idea, Kathleen, something useful in—say in entomol- 
ogy.” 

Together they walked back to the terrace. Duane 
had gone; Geraldine sat sideways on the parapet, her 
brown eyes fixed on the road along which her lover had 
departed. 

“ Geraldine,” said Kathleen, who very seldom re- 
lapsed into the vernacular, “ this brother of yours de- 
sires to perform some startling stunt in entomology and 
be awarded Carnegie medals.” 

“ That’s about it,” said Scott, undaunted. ‘ Some 
wise guy put it all over the Boll-weevil, and saved a few 
billions for the cotton growers; another gentleman full 
of scientific thinks studied out the San José scale; others 
have got in good licks at mosquitoes and house-flies. I’d 
like to tackle something of that sort.” 

303 








THE DANGER MARK 








“‘ Rose-beetles,” said his sister briefly. In her voice 
was a suspicion of tears, and she kept her head turned 
from them. 

“ Nobody could ever get rid of Rose-beetles,” said 
Kathleen. ‘“ But it would be exciting, wouldn’t it, 
Scott? Think of saving our roses and peonies and 
irises every year! ” 

“TI am thinking of it,” said Scott gravely. 

A few moments later he disappeared around the 
corner of the house, returning presently, pockets bulg- 
ing with bottles and boxes, a field-microscope in one 
hand, and several volumes on Coleoptera in the other. 

*'They’re gone,” he said without further explana- 
tion. 

“Who are gone? ” inquired Kathleen. 

“The Rose-beetles. They deposit their eggs in the 
soil. The larve ought to be out by now. I’m going to 
begin this very minute, Kathleen.” And he descended the 
terrace steps, entered the garden, and, seating himself 
under a rose-tree, spread out his paraphernalia and be- 
gan a delicate and cautious burrowing process in the 
sun-dried soil. 

“Fame is hidden under humble things,” observed 
Geraldine with a resolute effort at lightness. ‘ That 
excellent brother of mine may yet discover it in the 
garden dirt.” 

“ Dirt breeds roses,” said Kathleen. ‘ Oh, look, 
dear, how earnest he is about it. What a boy he is, after 
all! So serious and intent, and so touchingly con- 
fident ! ”” 

Geraldine nodded listlessly, considering her brother’s 
evolutions with his trowel and weeder where he lay flat 
on his stomach, absorbed in his investigations. 

“ Why does he get so grubby?” she said. “ All his 

304 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








coat-pockets are permanently out of shape. The other 
day I was looking through them, at his request, to find 
one of my own handkerchiefs which he had taken, and 
oh, horrors! a caterpillar, forgotten, had spun a big 
cocoon in one of them!” 

She shuddered, but in Kathleen’s laughter there was 
a tremor of tenderness born of that shy pride which 
arises from possession. For it was now too late, if it 
had not always been too late, for any criticism of this 
boy of hers. Perfect he had always been, wondrous to 
her, as a child, for the glimpses of the man developing 
in him; perfect, wonderful, adorable now for the 
glimpses of the child which she caught so constantly 
through the man’s character now forming day by day 
under her loyal eyes. Everything masculine in him she 
loved or pardoned proudly—even his egotism, his slap- 
dash self-confidence, his bullying of her, his domination, 
his exacting demands. But this new humility—this sud- 
den humble doubt that he might not be worthy of her, 
filled her heart with delicious laughter and a delight 
almost childish. 

So she watched him from the parapet, chin cupped 
in both palms, bright hair blowing, one shoulder al- 
most hidden under the drooping scarlet nasturtiums 
pendant from the carved stone urn above; a fair, sweet, 
youthful creature, young as her guiltless heart, sweet 
as her conscience, fair as the current of her stainless 
life. 

And beside her, seated sideways, brown eyes brood- 
ing, sat a young girl, delicately lovely, already harassed, 
already perplexed, already bruised and wearied by her 
first skirmishes with life; not yet fully understanding 
what threatened, whatlay before—alas! what lay behind 
her—even to the fifth generation. 

805 


THE DANGER MARK 








They were to motor to Lenox after luncheon. Be- 
fore that—and leaving Scott absorbed in his grubbing, 
and Kathleen absorbed in watching him—Geraldine wan- 
dered back into the library and took down a book—a 
book which had both beguiled and horrified the solitude 
of her self-imprisonment. It was called “ Simpson on 
Heredity.” 

There were some very hideous illustrated pages in 
that book; she turned to them with a fearful fascination 
which had never left her since she first read them. They 
dealt with the transmission of certain tendencies through 
successive generations. 

That the volume was an old one and amusingly out 
of date she did not realise, as her brown eyes widened 
over terrifying paragraphs and the soft tendrils of her 
glossy hair almost bristled. ' 

She had asked Kathleen about it, and Kathleen had 
asked Dr. Bailey, who became very irritated and told 
Geraldine that anybody except a physician who ever 
read medical works was a fool. Desperation gave her 
courage to ask him one more question; his well-meant 
reply silenced her. But she had the book under her pil- 
low. It is better to answer such questions when the 
young ask them. 

And over it all she pondered and pored, and used 
a dictionary and shuddered, frightening herself into a 
morbid condition until, desperately scared, she even 
thought of going to Duane about it; but could not 
find the hardihood to do it or the vocabulary neces- 
sary. 

Now Duane was gone; and the book lay there be- 
tween her knees, all its technical vagueness menacing her 
with unknown terrors; and she felt that she could endure 
it alone no longer. 


306 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








She wrote him: “ You have not been gone an hour, 
and already I need you. I wish to ask you about 
something that is troubling me; I’ve asked Kathleen 
and she doesn’t know; and Dr. Bailey was horrid to 
me, and I tried to find out from Scott whether he 
knew, but he wasn’t much interested. So, Duane, who 
else is there for me to ask except you? And I don’t 
exactly know whether I may speak about such mat- 
ters to you, but I’m rather frightened, and densely 
ignorant. 

“Tt is this, dear; in a medical book which I read, 
it says that hereditary taints are transmissible; that 
sometimes they may skip the second generation but 
only to appear surely in the third. But it also says 
that the taint is very likely to appear in every genera- 
tion. 

“ Duane, is this true? It has worried me sick since I 
read it. Because, my darling, if it is so, is it not another 
reason for our not marrying? 

‘Do you understand? I can and will eradicate 
what is threatening me, but if I marry you—you do 
understand, don’t you? Isn’t it all right for me to ask 
you whether, if we should have children, this thing would 
menace them? Oh, Duane-—Duane! Have I any right 
to marry? Children come—God knows how, for nebody 
ever told me exactly, and I’m a fool about such things— 
but I summoned up courage to ask Dr. Bailey if there 
was any way to tell before I married whether I would 
have any, and he said I would if I had any notion of my 
duty and any pretence to self-respect. And I don’t 
know what he means and I’m bewildered and miserable 
and afraid to marry you even when I myself become per- 
fectly well. And that is what worries me, Duane, and I 
have nobody in the world to ask about it except you. 

307 


THE DANGER MARK 








Could you please tell me how I might learn what I ought 
to know concerning these things without betraying my 
own vital interest in them to whomever I ask? You see, 
Kathleen is as innocent as I. . 

“ Please tell me all you can, Duane, for I am most 
unhappy.” 


“The house is very still and full of sunlight and cut 
flowers. Scott is meditating great deeds, lying flat in 
the dirt. Kathleen sits watching him from the parapet. 
And I am here in the library, with that ghastly book at 
my elbow, pouring out all my doubts and fears to the 
only man in the world—whom God bless and protect 
wherever he may be—Oh, Duane, Duane, how I love 
you!” 

She hurriedly directed and sealed the letter and 
placed it in the box for outgoing mail; then, unquiet 
and apprehensive regarding what she had ventured to 
write, she began a restless tour of the house, upstairs 
and down, wandering aimlessly through sunny corridors, 
opening doors for a brief survey of chambers in which 
only the shadow-patterns of leaves moved on sunlit 
walls ; still rooms tenanted only by the carefully dusted 
furniture which seemed to stand there watching atten- 
tively for another guest. 

Duane had left his pipe in his bedroom. She was 
silly over it, even to the point of retiring into her room, 
shredding some cigarettes, filling the rather rank bowl, 
and trying her best to smoke it. But such devotion was 
beyond her physical powers; she rinsed her mouth, 
furious at being defeated in her pious intentions, and, 
making an attractive parcel of the pipe, seized the occa- 
sion to write him another letter. 

“There is in my heart,” she wrote, “no room for 


308 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








anything except you; no desire except for you; no hope, 
no interest that is not yours. You praise my beauty; 
you endow me with what you might wish I really pos- 
sessed; and oh, I really am so humble at your feet, if 
you only knew it! So dazed by your goodness to me, 
so grateful, so happy that you nave chosen me 
(I just jumped up to look at myself in the mirror; 
I am pretty, Duane, I’ve a stunning colour just 
now and there 7s a certain charm about me—even 
I can see it in what you call the upceurled corners of 
my mouth, and in my figure and hands)—and I am 
so happy that it is true—that you find me beautiful, 
that you care for my beauty. ... It is so with a 
man, I believe; and a girl wishes to have him love her 
beauty, too. 

* But, Duane, I don’t think the average girl cares 
very much about that in a man. Of course you are ex- 
ceedingly nice to look at, and I notice it sometimes, but 
not nearly as often as you notice what you think is ex- 
ternally attractive about me. 

“In my heart, I don’t believe it really matters much 
to a girl what a man looks like; anyway, it matters very 
little after she once knows him. 

“Of course women do notice handsome men—or 
what we consider handsome—which is, I believe, not at 
all what men care for ; because men usually seem to have 
a desire to kick the man whom women find good-looking. 
I know several men who feel that way about Jack Dysart. 
I think you do, for one. 

“Poor Jack Dysart! To-day’s papers are saying 
such horridly unpleasant things about the rich men with 
whom he was rather closely associated in business affairs 
several years ago. I read, but I do not entirely com- 
prehend. 

309 


THE DANGER MARK 








“‘'The New York papers seem unusually gloomy this: 
summer ; nothing but predictions of hard times coming, 
and how many corporations the attorney-general is 
going to proceed against, and wicked people who loot 
metropolitan railways, and why the district-attorney 
doesn’t do his duty—which you say he does—oh, dear ; 
I expect that Scott and Kathleen and I will have to take 
in boarders this winter; but if nobody has any money, 
nobody can pay board, so everybody will be ruined and 
I don’t very much care, for I could teach school, only 
who is to pay my salary if there’s no money to pay it 
with? Oh, dear! what nonsense I am writing—only to 
keep on writing, because it seems to bring you a little 
nearer—my own—my Duane—my comrade—the same, 
same little boy who ran away from his nurse and came 
into our garden to fight my brother and—fall in love 
with his sister! Oh, Fate! Oh, Destiny! Oh, Duane 
Mallett! 

“Here is a curious phenomenon. Listen: 

** Away from you I have a woman’s courage to tell 
you how I long for you, how my heart and my arms ache 
for you. But when I am with you I’m less of a woman 
and more of a girl—a girl not yet accustomed to some 
things—always guarded, always a little reticent, always 
instinctively recoiling from the contact I really like, 
always a little on the defensive against your lips, in spite 
of myself—against your arms—where, somehow, I can- 
not seem to stay long at a time—will not endure it— 
cannot, somehow. 

* Yet, here, away from you, I so long for your em- 
brace, and cannot imagine it too long, too close, too ten- 
der to satisfy my need of you. 

*¢ And this is my second letter to you within the hour 
—one hour after your departure. 

310 


AMBITIONS AND LETTERS 








“Oh, Duane, I do truly miss you so! I go about 
humming that air you found so quaint: 


** *Lisetto quittée la plaine, 
Moi perdi bonheur a moi, 
Yeux & moi semblent fontaine, 
Depuis moi pas miré toi,’ 
and there’s a tear in every note of it, and I’m the most 
lonely girl on the face of the earth to-day. 


‘* GERALDINE QUI PLEURE.” 


“ P. S.—Voici votre pipe, Monsieur! ” 


21 


CHAPTER XIV 
THE PROPHETS 


Avcust in town found an unusual number of New 
York men at the clubs, at the restaurants, at the summer 
theatres. Men who very seldom shoved their noses in- 
side the metropolitan oven during the summer baking 
were now to be met everywhere and anywhere within the 
financial district and without. The sky-perched and 
magnificent down-town “ clubs” were full of men who 
under normal circumstances would have remained at 
Newport, Lenox, Bar Harbor, or who at least would 
have spent the greater portion of the summer on their 
yachts or their Long Island estates. 

And in every man’s hand or pocket was a newspaper. 

They were scarcely worth reading for mere pleas- 
ure, these New York newspapers; indeed, there was 
scarcely anything in them to read except a daily record 
of the steady decline in securities of every description ; 
paragraphs noting the passing of dividends; columns 
setting forth minutely the opinions of very wealthy men 
concerning the business outlook; chronicles in detail of 
suits brought against railroads and against great indus- — 
trial corporations; accounts of inquiries by State and 
by Federal authorities into combinations resulting in an 
alleged violation of various laws. 

Here and there a failure of some bucket-branded 
broker was noted—the reports echoing like the first 
dropping shots along the firing line. 

312 


THE PROPHETS 








Even to the most casual and uninterested outsider it 
was evident that already the metropolis was under a ten- 
sion; that the tension was increasing almost impercepti- 
bly day by day; that there seemed to be no very clear 
idea as to the reason of it, only a confused apprehension, 
an apparently unreassuring fear of some grotesque dan- 
ger ahead, which daily reading of the newspapers was 
not at all calculated to allay. 

Of course there were precise reasons for impending 
trouble given and reiterated by those amateurs of finance 
and politics whose opinions are at the disposal of the 
newspaper-reading public. 

Prolixity characterised these solemn utterances, 
packed full of cant phrases such as “ undigested securi- 
ties” and “ the treacherous attack on the nation’s in- 
tegrity.” 

Two principal reasons were given for the local 
financial uneasiness; and the one made the other ridicu- 
lous—first, that the nation’s Executive was mad as Nero 
and had deliberately begun a senseless holocaust involv- 
ing the entire nation ; the other that a “ panic ” was due, 
anyway. It resembled the logic of the White Queen of 
immortal memory, who began screaming before she 
pricked her finger in order to save herself any emotion 
after the pin had drawn blood. : 

Men knew in their hearts that there was no real rea- 
son for impending trouble; that this menace was an 
unreal thing, intangible, without substance—only a 
shadow cast by their own assininity. 

- Yet shadows can be made real property when author- 
ity so ordains. Because there was once a man with a 
donkey who met a stranger in the desert. 

The stranger bargained for and bought the donkey ; 
the late owner shoved the shekels into his ample pockets 

313 


THE DANGER MARK 








and sat down in the mule’s shadow to escape the sun; 
and the new owner brought suit to recover the rent 
due him for the occupation of the shadow cast by his 
donkey. 

There was also a mule which waited seven years to 
kick. 

There are asses and mules and all sorts of shadows. 
The ordinance of authority can affect only the shadow ; 
the substance is immutable. 

Among other serious gentlemen of condamties 
and means who had been unaccustomed to haunt the me- 
tropolis in the dog days was Colonel Alexander Mallett, 
President of the Half Moon Trust Company, and inci- 
dentally Duane’s father. 

His town-house was still open, although his wife and 
daughter were in the country. To it, in the comparative 
cool of the August evenings, came figures familiar in 
financial circles; such men as Magnelius Grandcourt, 
father of Delancy; and Remsen Tappan, and James 
Cray. 

Others came and went, men of whom Duane had read 
in the newspapers—very great men who dressed very 
simply, very powerful men who dressed elaborately ; and 
some were young and red-faced with high living, and one 
was damp of hair and long-nosed, with eyes set a trifle 
too close together ; and one fulfilled every external requi- 
site for a “ good fellow”; and another was very old, 
very white, with a nut-cracker jaw and faded eyes, blue 
as an unweaned pup’s, and a cream-coloured wig curled 
glossily over waxen ears and a bloodless and furrowed 
neck. 

All these were very great men; but they and Colonel 
Mallett journeyed at intervals into the presence of a 
greater man who inhabited, all alone, except for a crew 

314 


THE PROPHETS 








of a hundred men, an enormous yacht, usually at anchor 
off the white masonry cliffs of the seething city. 

All alone this very great man inhabited the huge 
white steamer; and they piped him fore and they piped 
him aft and they piped him over the side. Many a mid- 
night star looked down at the glowing end of his black 
cigar; many a dawn shrilled with his boatswain’s whistle. 
He was a very, very great man; none was greater in 
New York town. 

It was said of him that he once killed a pompous 
statesman—by ridicule: 

“T know who you are!” panted a ragged urchin, 
gazing up in awe as the famous statesman approached 
his waiting carriage. 

“* And who am I, my little man? ” 

“You are the great senator from New York.” 

“Yes—you are right. But”—and he solemnly 
pointed his gloved forefinger toward heaven—“ but, re- 
member, there is One even greater than I.” 

Duane had heard the absurd lampoon as a child, and 
one evening late in August, smoking his after-dinner 
cigar beside his father in the empty conservatory, he 
recalled the story, which had been one of his father’s 
favorites. 

But Colonel Mallett scarcely smiled, scarcely heard ; 
and his son watched him furtively. The trim, elastic 
figure was less upright this summer ; the close gray hair 
and cavalry mustache had turned white very rapidly 
since spring. For the first time, too, in all his life, Colo- 
nel Mallett wore spectacles; and the thin gold rims irri- 
tated his ears and the delicate bridge of his nose. 
Under his pleasant eyes the fine skin had darkened no- 
ticeably ; thin new lines had sprung downward from the 
nostrils’ clean-cut wings; but the most noticeable 

315 


THE DANGER MARK 








change was in his hands, which were no longer firm and 
fairly smooth, but were now the hands of an old man, 
restless if not tremulous, unsteady in handling the cigar 
which, unnoticed, had gone out. 

They—father and son—had never been very inti- 
mate. An excellent understanding had always existed 
between them with nothing deeper in it than a natural 
affection and an instinctive respect for each other’s 
privacy. 

This respect now oppressed Duane because long 
habit, and the understood pact, seemed to bar him from 
a sympathy and a practical affection which, for the first 
‘time, it seemed to him his father might care for. 

That his father was worried was plain enough; but 
how anxious and with how much reason, he had hesi- 
tated to ask, waiting for some voluntary admission, or 
at least some opening, which the older man never gave. 

That night, however, he had tried an opening for 
himself, offering the old stock story which had always, 
heretofore, amused his father. And there had been no 
response. 

In silence he thought the matter over; his sympathy 
‘was always quick; it hurt him to remain aloof when 
there might be a chance that he could help a little. 

“It may amuse you,” he said carelessly, “to know 
how much I’ve made since I came back from Paris.” 

The elder man looked up preoccupied. His son 
went on: 

“* What you set aside for me brings me ten thousand 
a year, you know. So far I haven’t touched it. Isn’t 
that pretty good for a start?” 

Colonel Mallett sat up straighter with a glimmer of 
interest in his eyes. 

Duane went on, checking off on his Geers 

316 


THE PROPHETS 








“TI got fifteen hundred for Mrs. Varick’s portrait, 
the same for Mrs. James Cray’s, a thousand each for 
portraits of Carl and Friedrich Gumble; that makes five 
thousand. Then I had three thousand for the music~ 
room I did for Mrs. Ellis; and Dinklespiel Brothers, 
who handle my pictures, have sold every one I sent; 
which gives me twelve thousand so far.” 

“JT am perfectly astonished,” murmured his father.. 

Duane laughed. ‘“ Oh, I know very well that sheer 
merit had nothing much to do with it. The people who 
gave me orders are all your friends. They did it as 
they might have sent in wedding presents; I am your 
son ; I come back from Paris; it’s up to them to do some- 
thing. They’ve done it—those who ever will, I expect 
—and from now on it will be different.” 

“ They’ve given you a start,” said his father. 

** They certainly have done that. Many a brilliant 
young fellow, with more ability than I, eats out his 
heart unrecognised, sterilised for lack of what came to 
me because of your influence.” 

“It is well to look at it in that way for the present,” 
said his father. He sat silent for a while, staring 
through the dusk at the lighted windows of houses in 
the rear. Then: 

“I have meant to say, Duane, that I—we ”—he 
found a little difficulty in choosing his words—“ that 
the Trust Company’s officers feel that, for the present, 
it is best for them to reconsider their offer that you 
should undertake the mural decoration of the new 
building.” 

“Oh,” said Duane, “ I’m sorry !—but it’s all right, 
father.” 

“I told them you’d take it without offence. I told 
them that I’d tell you the reason we do not feel quite 

317 


THE DANGER MARK 








ready to incur, at this moment, any additional ex- 
penses.” 

** Everybody is economising,” said Duane cheer- 
fully, “so I understand. No doubt—later 

* No doubt,” said his father gravely. 

The son’s attitude was careless, untroubled; he 
dropped one long leg over the other knee, and idly ex- 
amining his cigar, cast one swift level look at the older 
man: 

*¢ Father? ” 

** Yes, my son.” 

**T—it just occurred to me that if you happen to 
have any temporary use for what you very generously 
set aside for me, don’t stand on ceremony.” 

There ensued a long silence. It was his bedtime 
when Colonel Mallett stirred in his holland-covered arm- 
chair and stood up. 

* Thank you, my son,” he said simply ; they shook 
hands and separated; the father to sleep, if he could; 
the son to go out into the summer night, walk to his 


nearest club, and write his daily letter to the woman he 
loved: 





* Dear, it is not at all bad in town—not that mur- 
derous, humid heat that you think I’m up against; and 
you must stop reproaching yourself for enjoying the 
delicious breezes in the Adirondacks. Women don’t 
know what a jolly time men have in town. Follows the 
chronical of this August day: 

“TY had your letter; that is breeze enough for me; 
it was all full of blue sky and big white clouds and the 
scent of Adirondack pines. Isn’t it jolly for you and 
Kathleen to be at the Varicks’ camp! And what a jolly 
crowd you’ve run into. 

318 


THE PROPHETS 








“JT note what you say about your return to the 
Berkshires, and that you expect to be at Berkshire Pass 
Inn with the motor on Monday. Give my love to Naida; 
I know you three and young Montross will have a bully 
tour through the hill country. : 

“TI also note your red-pencil cross at the top of the 
page—which always gives me, as soon as I open a letter 
of yours, the assurance that all is still well with you 
and that victory still remains with you. Thank God! 
Stand steady, little girl, for the shadows are flying and 
the dawn is ours. 

** After your letter, breakfast with father—a rather 
silent one. Then he went down-town in his car and I 
walked to the studio. It’s one of those stable-like stu- 
dios which decorate the cross-streets in the 50’s, but big 
enough to work in. 

** A rather bothersome bit of news: the Trust Com- 
pany reconsiders its commission; and I have three lu- 
nettes and three big mural panels practically completed. 
For a while I’ll admit I had the blues, but, after all, 
some day the Trust Company is likely to take up the 
thing again and give me the commission. Anyway, I’ve 
had a corking time doing the things, and lots of valu- 
able practice in handling a big job and covering large 
surfaces; and the problem has been most exciting and 
interesting because, you see, I’ve had to solve it, taking 
into consideration the architecture and certain fixed 
keys and standards, such as the local colour and texture 
of the marble and the limitations of the light area. 
Don’t turn up your pretty nose; it’s all very interesting. 

“TI didn’t bother about luncheon; and about five I 
went to the club, rather tired in my spinal column and 
arm-weary. 

“‘ Nobody was there whom you know except Delancy 

22 319 


THE DANGER MARK 








Grandcourt. and Dysart. The latter certainly looks 
very haggard. I do not like him personally, as you 
know, but the man locks ill and old and the papers are 
becoming bolder in what they hint at concerning him 
and the operations he was, and is still supposed to be, 
connected with; and it is deplorable to see such a phys- 
ical change in any human being, guilty or innocent. I 
do not like to see pain; I never did. For Dysart I 
have no use at all, but he is suffering, and it is difficult 
to contemplate any suffering unmoved. 

* ‘There was a letter at the club for me from Scott. 
He says he’s plugging away at the Rose-beetle’s life his- 
tory as a hors-d’ceeuvre before tackling the appetising 
problem of his total extermination. Dear old Scott! 
I never thought that the boy I fought in your garden 
would turn into a spectacled savant. Or that his sister 
would prove to be the only inspiration and faith and 
hope that life holds for me! 

“TI talked to Delancy. He is a good young man, as 
you’ve always insisted. I know one thing; he’s high- 
minded and gentle. Dysart has a manner of treating 
him which is most offensive, but it only reflects dis- 
credit on Dysart. 

* Delancy told me that Rosalie is hostess in her own 
cottage this month and has asked him up. I heard him 
speaking rather diffidently to Dysart about it, and 
Dysart replied that he didn’t ‘ give a damn who went to 
the house,’ as he wasn’t going. 

** So much for gossip; now a fact or two: my father 
is plainly worried over the business outlook; and he’s 
quite alone in the house; and that is why I don’t go back 
to Roya-Neh just now and join your brother. I could 
do plenty of work there. Scott writes that the new 
studio is in good shape for me. What a generous girl 

320 


THE PROPHETS 








you are! Be certain that at the very first opportunity 
I will go and occupy it and paint, no doubt, several 
exceedingly remarkable pictures in it which will sell for 
enormous prices and enable us to keep a maid-of-all- 
work when we begin our ménage! 

“Father has retired—poor old governor—it tears 
me all to pieces to see him so silent and listless. I am 
here at the club writing this before I go home to bed. 
Now I am going. Good-night, my beloved. 

** Duane.” 

“ P, S.—An honour, or the chance of it, has sud- 
denly confronted me, surprising me so much that I don’t 
really dare to believe that it can possibly happen to me 
—at least not for years. It is this: I met Guy Wilton 
the other day; you don’t know him, but he is a most 
charming and cultivated man, an engineer. I lunched 
with him at the Pyramid—that bully old club into which 
nothing on earth can take a man who has not distin- 
guished himself in his profession. It is composed of 
professional and business men, the law, the army, navy, 
diplomatic and consular, the arts and sciences, and usu- 
ally the chief executive of the nation. 

* During luncheon Wilton said: ‘ You ought to be 
in here. You are the proper timber.’ 

“ T was astounded and told him so. 

“ He said: ‘ By the way, the president of the Acad- 
emy of Design is very much impressed with some work 
of yours he has seen. I’ve heard him, and other artists, 
also, discussing some pictures of yours which were ex- 
hibited in a Fifth Avenue gallery.’ 

“ Well, you know, Geraldine, the breath was getting 
scarcer in my lungs every minute and I hadn’t a word to 
say. And do you know what that trump of a mining 
engineer did? He took me about after. luncheon and I 

$21 


THE DANGER MARK 








met a lot of very corking old ducks and some very emi- 
nent and delightful younger ducks, and everybody was 
terribly nice, and the president of the Academy, who is _: 
startlingly young and amiable, said that Guy Wilton 
had spoken about me, and that it was customary that 
when anybody was proposed for membership, a man of 
his own profession should do it. 

** And I looked over the club list and saw Billy Van 
Siclen’s name, and now what do you think! Billy has 
proposed me, Austin, the marine painter, has seconded 
me, and no end of men have written in my behalf—pro- 
fessors, army men, navy men, business friends of 
father’s, architects, writers—and I’m terribly excited 
over it, although my excitement has plenty of time to 
cool because it’s a fearfully conservative club and a man 
has to wait years, anyway. 

“This is the very great honour, dear, for it is one 
even to be proposed for the Pyramid. I know you will 


be happy over it. 
ae D—D,” 


The weather became hotter toward the beginning of 
September; his studio was almost unendurable, nor was 
the house very much better. 

To eat was an effort; to sleep a martyrdom. Night 
after night he rose from his hot pillows to stand and 
listen outside his father’s door; but the old endure heat 
better than the young, and very often his father was 
asleep in the stifling darkness which made sleep for him 
impossible. 

The usual New York thunder-storms rolled up over 
Staten Island, covered the southwest with inky gloom, 
veined the horizon with lightning, then burst in spec- 
tacular fury over the panting city, drenched it to its 

322 


THE PROPHETS 








steel foundations, and passed on rumbling up the Hud- 
son, leaving scarcely any relief behind it. 

In one of these sudden thunder-storms he took 
refuge in a rather modest and retired restaurant just 
off Fifth Avenue; and it being the luncheon hour he 
made a convenience of necessity and looked about for a 
table, and discovered Rosalie Dysart and Delancy 
Grandcourt en téte-d-téte over their peach and grape- 
fruit salad. : 

There was no reason why they should not have been 
there; no reason why he should have hesitated to speak 
to them. But he did hesitate—in fact, was retiring by 
the way he came, when Rosalie glanced around with that 
instinct which divines a familiar presence, gave him a 
startled look, coloured promptly to her temples, and 
recovered her equanimity with a smile and a sign for 
him to join them. So he shook hands, but remained 
standing. 

“We ran into town in the racer this sistaieig* she 
explained. ‘ Delancy had something on down-town and 
I wanted to look over some cross-saddles they made for 
me at Thompson’s. Do be amiable and help us eat 
our salad. What a ghastly place town is in Septem- 
ber! It’s bad enough in the country this year; all the 
men wear long faces and mutter dreadful prophecies. 
Can you tell me, Duane, what all this doleful talk is 
about? ” 

“It’s about something harder to digest than this 
salad. The public stomach is ostrichlike, but it can’t 
stand the water-cure. Which is all Arabic to you, 
Rosalie, and I don’t mean to be impertinent, only the 
truth is I don’t know why people are losing confidence 
in the financial stability of the country, but they ap- 
parently are.” 

323 


THE DANGER MARK 








*“'There’s a devilish row on down-town,” observed 
Delancy, blinking, as an unusually heavy clap of thun- 
der rattled the dishes. 

** What kind of a row?” asked Duane. 

_ © Greensleeve & Co. have failed, with liabilities of a 
million and microscopical assets.” 

Rosalie raised her eyebrows; Greensleeve & Co. were 
once brokers for her husband if she remembered cor- 
rectly. Duane had heard of them but was only vaguely 
impressed. 

* Is that rather a bad thing? ” he inquired. 

** Well—I don’t know. It made a noise louder than 
that thunder. Three banks fell down in Brooklyn, 
too.” 

“ What banks? ” 

Delancy named them; it sounded serious, but neither 
Duane nor Rosalie were any wiser. 

*'The Wolverine Mercantile Loan and Trust Com- 
pany closed its doors, also,” observed Delancy, drop- 
ping the tips of his long, highly coloured fingers into . 
his finger-bowl as though to wash away all personal re- 
sponsibility for these financial flip-flaps. 

Rosalie laughed: ‘‘ This is pleasant information for 
a rainy day,” she said. ‘‘ Duane, have you heard from 
Geraldine? ” 

“ Yes, to-day,” he said innocently; “she is leaving 
Lenox this morning for Roya-Neh. I hear that there 
is to be some shooting there Christmas week. Scott 
writes that the boar and deer are increasing very fast 
and must be kept down. You and Delancy are on the 
list, I believe.” : 

Rosalie nodded; Delancy said: ‘ Miss Seagrave has 
been good enough to ask the family. Yours is booked, 
too, I fancy.” 

324 


THE PROPHETS 








“Yes, if my father only feels up to it. Christmas 
at Roya-Neh ought to be a jolly affair.” 

“‘ Christmas anywhere away from New York ought 
to be a relief,” observed young Grandcourt drily. 

They laughed without much spirit. Coffee was 
served, cigarettes lighted. Presently Grandcourt sent a 
page to find out if the car had returned from the 
garage where Rosalie had sent it for a minor repair. 

The car was ready, it appeared; Rosalie retired to 
readjust her hair and veil; the two men standing 
glanced at one another: 

“IT suppose you know,” said Delancy, reddening 
with embarrassment, “ that Mr. and Mrs. Dysart have 
separated.” 

“TI heard so yesterday,” said Duane coolly. 

The other grew redder: “I heard it from. Mrs. 
Dysart about half an hour ago.” He hesitated, then 
frankly awkward: “I say, Mallett, ’m a sort of an ass 
about these things. Is there any impropriety in my 
going about with Mrs. Dysart—under the circum- 
stances? ” 

“ Why—no!” said Duane. “Rosalie has to go 
about with people, I suppose. Only—perhaps it’s 
fairer to her if you don’t do it too often—I mean it’s 
better for her that any one man should not appear to 
pay her noticeable attention. You know what mischief 
can get into print. What’s taken below stairs is often 
swiped and stealthily perused above stairs.” 

“I suppose so. I don’t read it myself, but it makes 
game of my mother and she finds a furious consolation 
in taking it to my father and planning a suit for dam- 
ages once a week. You’re right; most people are afraid 
of it. Do you think it’s all right for me to motor back 
with Mrs. Dysart? ” 

325 


THE DANGER MARK 








* Are you afraid?” asked Duane, smiling. 

*‘ Only on her account,” said Grandcourt, so simply 
that a warm feeling rose in Duane’s heart for this big, 
ungainly, vividly coloured young fellow whose direct 
and honest gaze always refreshed people even when they 
laughed at him. 

** Are you driving? ” asked Duane. 

“Yes. We came in at a hell of a clip. It made my 
hair stand, but Mrs. Dysart likes it. . . . I say, Mal- 
lett, what sort of an outcome do you suppose there’ll 
be?” 

** Between Rosalie and Jack Dysart? ” 

Ves? 

“I know no more than you, Grandcourt. Why?” 

“Only that—it’s too bad. I’ve known them so 
long; I’m friendly with both. Jack is a curious fellow. 
There’s much of good in him, Mallett, although I be- 
lieve you and he are not on terms. He is a—I don’t 
mean this for criticism—but sometimes his manner is 
unfortunate, leading people to consider him over- 
bearing. 

“I understand why people think so; I get angry at 
him, sometimes, myself—being perhaps rather sensitive 
and very conscious that I am not anything remarkable. 

** But, somehow ”—he looked earnestly at Duane— 
“T set a very great value on old friendships. He and 
I were at school. I always admired in him the traits I 
myself have lacked. . . . There is something about an 
old friendship that seems very important to me. I 
couldn’t very easily break one. . . . It is that way with 
me, Mallett. . . . Besides, when I think, perhaps, that 
Jack Dysart is a trifle overbearing and too free with his 
snubs, I go somewhere and cool off ; and I think that in 
his heart he must like me as well as I do him because, 


326 


THE PROPHETS 








sooner or later, we always manage to drift together 
again. . . . That is one reason why I am so particular 
about his wife.” 

Another reason happened to be that he had been in 
love with her himself when Dysart gracefully shouldered 
his way between them and married Rosalie Dene. Duane 
had heard something about it; and he wondered a lit- 
tle at the loyalty to such a friendship that this young 
man so naively confessed. 

Tl] tell you what I think,” said Duane; “ I think 
you’re the best sort of an anchor for Rosalie Dysart. 
Only a fool would mistake your friendship. But the 
town’s full of ’em, Grandcourt,” he added with a smile. 

“TI suppose so. ... And I say, Mallett—may I 
ask you something more? ... I don’t like to pester 
you with questions ? 

“Go on, my friend. I take it as a clean compliment 
from a clean-cut man.” 

Delancy coloured, checked, but presently found voice 
to continue: 

* That’s very good of you; I thought I might speak 
to you about this Greensleeve & Co.’s failure before Mrs. 
Dysart returns.” 

* Certainly,” said Duane, surprised; “ what about 
them? They acted for Dysart at one time, didn’t 
they? ” 

** They do now.” 

** Are you sure? ” 

“Yes, I am. I didn’t want to say so before Mrs. 
Dysart. But the afternoon papers have it. I don’t 
know why they take such a malicious pleasure in harry- 
ing Dysart—umless on account of his connections with 
that Yo Espero crowd—what’s their names?—Skelton! 
Oh, yes, James Skelton—and Emanuel Klawber with his 

327 





THE DANGER MARK 








thirty millions and his string of banks and trusts and 
mines; and that plunger, Max Moebus, and old Amos 
Flack—Flack the hack stalking-horse of every bull- 
market, who laid down on his own brokers and has done 
everybody’s dirty work ever since. How on earth, Mal- 
lett, do you suppose Jack Dysart ever got himself mixed 
up with such a lot of skyrockets and disreputable fly- 
by-nights? ” 

Duane did not answer. He had nothing good to say . 
or think of Dysart. 

Rosalie reappeared at that moment in her distract- 
ingly pretty pongee motor-coat and hat. 

“Do come back with us, Duane,” she said. 
“ There’s a rumble and we’ll get the mud off you with 
a hose.” 

*¢ T’d like to run down sometimes if you’ll let me,’’ he 
said, shaking hands. 

So they parted, he to return to his studio, where 
models booked long ahead awaited him for canvases 
which he was going on with, although the great Trust 
Company that ordered them had practically thrown 
them back on his hands. 

That evening at home when he came downstairs 
dressed in white serge for dinner, he found his father 
unusually silent, very pale, and so tired that he barely 
tasted the dishes the butler offered, and sat for the most 
part motionless, head and shoulders sagging against the 
back of his chair. 

And after dinner in the conservatory Duane lighted 
his father’s cigar and then his own. 

““ What’s wrong?” he asked, pleasantly invading 
the privacy of years because he felt it was the time to 
do it. 

His father slowly turned his head and looked at him 

328 


THE PROPHETS 








—seemed to study the well-knit, loosely built, athletic 
figure of this strong young man—his only son—as 
though searching for some support in the youthful 
strength he gazed upon. 

He said, very deliberately, but with a voice not per- 
fectly steady: 

** Matters are not going very well, my boy.” 

“What matters, father? ” 

** Down-town.” 

“ Yes, I’ve heard. But, after all, you people in the 
Half Moon need only crawl into your shell and lie still.” 

ce Yes.”’ 

After a silence: 

** Father, have you any outside matters that trouble 
you?” 

“ There are—some.” 

* You are not involved seriously? ” 

His father made an effort: “I think not, Duane.” 

* Oh, all right. If you were, I was going to sug- 
gest that I’ve deposited what I have, subject to your 
order, with your own cashier.” 

* That is—very kind of you, my son. I may—find 
use for it—for a short time. Would you take my 
note? ” 

Duane laughed. He went on presently: “I wrote 
Naida the other day. She has given me power of attor- 
ney. What she has is there, any time you need it.” 

His father hung his head in silence; only his colour- 
less and shrunken hands worked on the arms of his chair. 

“See here, father,” said the young fellow; “ don’t 
let this thing bother you. Anything that could possibly 
happen is better than to have you look and feel as you 
do. Suppose the very worst happens—which it won’t— 
but suppose it did and we all went gaily to utter smash. 

329 


THE DANGER MARK 








“That is a detail compared with your going to 
smash physically. Because Naida and I never did con- 
sider such things vital; and mother is a brick when it 
comes to a show-down. And as for me, why, if the very 
worst hits us, I can take care of our bunch. It’s in me 
to do it. I suppose you don’t think so. But I can make 
money enough to keep us together, and, after all, that’s 
the main thing.” 

His father said nothing. 

“Of course,” laughed Duane, “I don’t for a mo- 
ment suppose that anything like that is on the cards. 
I don’t know what your fortune is, but judging from 
your generosity to Naida and me I fancy it’s too solid 
to worry over. The trouble with you gay old capi- 
talists,” he added, “is that you think in such enormous 
sums! And you forget that little sums are required 
to make us all very happy; and if some of the millions 
which you cannot possibly ever use happen to escape 
you, the tragic aspect as it strikes you is out of all 
proportion to the real state of the case.” 

His father felt the effort his son was making; 
looked up wearily, strove to smile, to relight his cigar ; 
which Duane did for him, saying: 

** As long as you are not mixed up in that Klawber, 
Skelton, Moebus crowd, I’m not inclined to worry. It 
seems, as of course you know, that Dysart’s brokers 
failed to-day.” 

* So I heard,” said his father steadily. He straight- 
ened himself in his chair. “I am sorry. Mr. Green- 
sleeve is a very old friend a 

The library telephone rang; the second man entered 
and asked if Colonel Mallett could speak to Mr. Dysart 
over the wire on a matter concerning the Yo Espero 
district. 





330 


THE PROPHETS 








Duane, astonished, sprang up asking if he might 
not take the message; then shrank aside as his father 
got to his feet. He saw the ghastly pallor on his face 
as his father passed him, moving toward the library ; 
stood motionless in troubled amazement, then walked to 
the open. window of the conservatory and, leaning there, 
waited. 

His father did not return. Later a servant came: 

* Colonel Mallett has retired, Mr. Duane, and begs 
that he be undisturbed, as he is very tired.” 


CHAPTER XV 
DYSART 


Tue possibility that his father could be involved in 
any of the spectacular schemes which had evidently 
caught Dysart, seemed so remote that Duane’s incredu- 
lity permitted him to sleep that night, though the name 
Yo Espero haunted his dreams. 

But in the morning, something he read in the paper 
concerning a vast enterprise, involving the control of 
the new radium mines in Southern California, startled 
him into trying to recollect what he had heard of Yo 
Espero and the Cascade Development and Securities 
Company. Tainting its title the sinister name of 
Moebus seemed to reoccur persistently in his confused 
imagination. Dysart’s name, too, figured in it. And, 
somehow, he conceived an idea that his father once re- 
ceived some mining engineer’s reports covering the mat- 
ter; he even seemed to remember that Guy Wilton had 
been called into consultation. 

Whatever associations he had for the name of the 
Cascade Development and Securities Company must 
have originated in Paris the year before his father 
returned to America. It seemed to him that Wilton 
had been in Spain that year examining the recent and 
marvellously rich radium find; and that his father 
and Wilton exchanged telegrams very frequently con- 
cerning a mine in Southern California known as Yo 
Espero. 

332 


DYSART 








His father breakfasted in his room that morning, 
but when he appeared in the library Duane was relieved 
to notice that his step was firmer and he held himself 
more erect, although his extreme pallor had not changed 
to a healthier colour. 

“You know,” said Duane, “ you’ve simply got to 
get out of town for a while. It’s all bally rot, your 
doing this sort of thing.” 

“TIT may go West for a few weeks,” said his father 


absently. 
* Are you going down-town? ” 
“No. .. . And, Duane, if you don’t mind letting 


” 





me have the shottie to myself this morning 

He hesitated, glancing from his son to the tele- 
phone. 

* Of course not,” said Duane heartily. “I’m off 
to the studio——” 

“TI don’t mean to throw you out,” murmured his 
father with a painful attempt to smile, “ but there’s a 
stenographer comm from my office and several —busi- 
ness acquaintances.” 

The young fellow rose, patted his father’s shoulder 
lightly : 

“What is really of any importance,” he said, “ is 
that you keep your health and spirits. What I said 
last night covers my sentiments. If I can do anything 
in the world for you, tell me.” 

His father took the outstretched hand, lifted his 
faded eyes with a strange dumb look; and so they 
parted. 

On Fifth Avenue and Fifty-ninth Street, Duane, 
swinging along at a good pace, turned westward, and 
half-way to Sixth Avenue encountered Guy Wilton 
going east, a packet under one arm, stick and hat in the 

338 


THE DANGER MARK 








other hand, the summer wind blowing the thick curly 
hair from his temples. 

* Ah,” observed Wilton, “early bird and worm, I 
suppose? Don’t try to bolt me, Duane; I’m full of 
tough and undigested—er—problems, myself. Besides, 
Y’m fermenting. Did you ever silently ferment while 
listening politely to a man you wanted to assault? ” 

Duane laughed, then his eye by accident, caught a 
superscription on the packet of papers under Wilton’s 
arm: Yo Espero! His glance reverted in a flash to 
Wilton’s face. 

The latter said: “I want to write a book entitled 
‘Gentleman I Have Kicked.2 Of course I’ve only 
kicked ’em mentally; but my! what a list I have !—all 
sorts, all nations—from certain domestic and preda- 
tory statesmen to the cad who made his beautiful and 
sensitive mistress notorious in a decadent novel !—all 
kinds, Duane, have I kicked mentally I’ve just used 
my foot on another social favorite——” 

“Dysart!” said Duane, inspired, and, turning 
painfully red, begged Wilton’s pardon. 

“You’ve sure got a disconcerting way with you,” 
admitted Wilton, very much out of countenance. 

“Tt was rotten bad taste in me——” 

Wilton grinned with a wry face: “Nobody is 
standing much on ceremony these days. Besides, I’m 
on to your trail, young man ”’—tapping the bundle 
under his arm— your eye happened to catch that 
superscription; no doubt your father has talked to 
you; and you came to—a rather embarrassing con- 
clusion.” — 

Duane’s serious face fell: 

“My father and I have not talked on that subject, 
Guy. Are you going up to see him now? ” 

334 


DYSART 








Wilton hesitated: “I suppose I am. . . . See here, 
Duane, how much do you know about—anything? ” 

* Nothing,” he said without humour; “ I’m begin- 
ning to worry over my father’s health. ... Guy, 
don’t tell me anything that my father’s son ought not 
to know; but is there something I should know and 
don’t?—anything in which I could possibly be of help 
to my father? ” 

Wilton looked carefully at a distant policeman for 
nearly a minute, then his meditative glance became 
focussed on vacancy. 

** I—don’t—know,” he said slowly. “I’m going 
to see your father now. If there is anything to tell, I 
think he ought to tell it to you. Don’t you?” 

“Yes. But he won’t. Guy, I don’t care a damn 
about anything except his health and happiness. If 
anything threatens either, he won’t tell me, but don’t 
you think I ought to know? ” 

** You ask too hard a question for me to answer.” 

* Then can you answer me this? Is father at all in- 
volved in any of Jack Dysart’s schemes? ” 

* T—had better not answer, Duane.” 

** You know best. You understand that it is noth- 
ing except anxiety for his personal condition that I 
thought warranted my butting into his affairs and 
yours.” 

** Yes, I understand. Let me think over things for 
a day or two. Now I’ve got to hustle. Good-bye.” 

He hastened on eastward; Duane went west, slowly, 
more slowly, halted, head bent in troubled concentration ; 
then he wheeled in his tracks with nervous decision, 
walked back to the Plaza Club, sent for a cab, and pres- 
ently rattled off up-town. 

In a few minutes the cab swung east and came to 

835 


THE DANGER MARK 








a standstill a few doors from Fifth Avenue; and Duane’ 
sprang out and touched the button at a bronze grille. 
The servant who admitted him addressed him by 
name with smiling deference and ushered him into a 
two-room reception suite beyond the tiny elevator. 

There was evidently somebody in the second room; 
Duane had also noticed a motor waiting outside as he 
descended from his cab; so he took a seat and sat twirl- 
ing his walking-stick between his knees, gloomily in- 
specting a room which, in pleasanter days, had not been 
unfamiliar to him. 

Instead of the servant returning, there came a click 
from the elevator, a quick step, and the master of the 
house himself walked swiftly into the room wearing hat 
and gloves. 

“What do you want?” he inquired briefly. 

**T want to ask you a question or two,” said Duane, 
shocked at the change in Dysart’s face. Haggard, 
thin, snow-white at the temples with the light in his 
eyes almost extinct, the very precision and freshness of 
linen and clothing brutally accentuated the ravaged 
features. 

“* What questions? ” demanded Dysart, still stand- 
ing, and without any emotion whatever in either voice 
or manner. 

“The first is this: are you in communication with 
my father concerning mining stock known as Yo 
Espero? ” 

“ I am.” 

“Is my father involved in any business transactions 
in which you figure, or have figured? ” 

“There are some. Yes.” 

“Ts the Cascade Development and Securities Co. 
one of them? ” 

336 


DYSART 








“ Yes, it is.” 

Duane’s lips were dry with fear; he swallowed, con- 
trolled the rising anger that began to twitch at his 
throat, and went on in a low, quiet voice: 

“Ts this man—Moebus—connected with any of 
these transactions in which you and—and my father are 
interested? ” 

6é Yes.” 

“Is Klawber? ” 

“Max Moebus, Emanuel Klawber, James Skelton, 
and Amos Flack are interested. Is that what you want 
to know? ” 

Duane looked at him, stunned. Dysart stepped 
nearer, speaking almost in a whisper: 

“ Well, what about it? Once I warned you to keep 
your damned nose out of my personal affairs 24 

**T make some of them mine!” said Duane sharply ; 
“when crooks get hold of an honest man, every citizen 
is a policeman! ” 

Dysart, face convulsed with fury, seized his arm in 
a vicelike grip: | 

* Will you keep your cursed mouth shut!” he 
breathed. ‘‘ My father is in the next room. Do you 
want to kill him? ” 

At the same moment there came a stir from the 
room beyond, the tap-tap of a cane and shuffling steps 
across the polished parquet. Dysart’s grip relaxed, his 
hand fell away, and he made a ghastly grimace as a 
little old gentleman came half-trotting, half-shambling 
to the doorway. He was small and dapper and pink- 
skinned under his wig; the pink was paint; his lips and 
eyes peered and simpered; from one bird-claw hand 
dangled a monocle. 

Jack Dysart made a ghastly and supreme effort: 

337 





THE DANGER MARK 








“T was just saying to Duane, father, that all this 
fnancial agitation is bound to blow over by December— 
Duane Mallett, father !”—as the old man raised his eye- 
glass and peeped up at the young fellow—*“ you know 
his father, Colonel Mallett.” 

“Yes, to be sure, yes, to be sure!” piped the old 
beau. ‘ How-de-do! How-de-do-o-o! My son Jack 
and I motor every morning at this hour. It is becom- 
ing a custom—he! he!—every day from ten to eleven— 
then a biscuit and a glass of sherry—then a nap— 
te-he! Oh, yes, every day, Mr. Mallett, rain or fair— 
then luncheon at one, and the cigarette—te-he!—and a 
little sleep—and the drive at five! Yes, Mr. Mallett, it 
is the routine of a very old man who knew your grand- 
father—and all his set—when the town was gay below 
Bleecker Street! Yes, yes—te-he-he! ” 

Nervous spasms which passed as smiles distorted the 
younger Dysart’s visage; the aged beau offered his 
hand to Duane, who took it in silence, his eyes fixed on 
the shrivelled, painted face: 

“Your grandfather was a very fine man,” he piped; 
** very fine! ve-ery fine! And so I perceive is his grand- 
son—te-he !—and I flatter myself that my boy Jack is 
not unadmired—te-he-he !—no, no—not precisely unno- 
ticed in New York—the town whose history is the his- 
tory of his own race, Mr. Mallett—he is a good son to 
me—yes, yes, a good son. It is gratifying to me to 
know that you are his friend. He is a good friend to 
have, Mr. Mallett, a good friend and a good son.” 

Duane bent gently over the shrivelled hand. 

“I won’t detain you from your drive, Mr. Dysart. 
I hope you will have a pleasant one. It is a pleasure to 
know my grandfather’s old friends. Good-bye.” 

And, erect, he hesitated a moment, then, for an old 

338 


DYSART 








man’s sake he held out his hand to Jack Dysart, bidding 
him good-bye in a pleasant voice pitched clear and de- 
cided, so that deaf ears might corroborate what half- 
blind and peering eyes so dimly beheld. 

Dysart walked to the door with him, waved the ser- 
vant aside, and, laying a shaking hand on the bronze 
knob, opened the door for his unbidden guest. 

As Duane passed him he said: 

* Thank you, Mallett,” in a voice so low that Duane 
was half-way to his cab before he understood. 


That day, and the next, and all that week he worked 
in his pitlike studio. Through the high sky-window a 
cloudless zenith brooded; the heat became terrific; ex- 
cept for the inevitable crush of the morning and even- 
ing migration south and north, the streets were almost 
empty under a blazing sun. 

His father seemed to be physically better. Al- 
though he offered no confidences, it appeared to the 
son that there was something a little more cheerful 
in his voice and manner. It may have been only the 
anticipation of departure; for he was going West in 
a day or two, and it came out that Wilton was going 
with him. 

The day he left, Duane drove him to the station. 
There was a private car, the “ Cyane,” attached to the 
long train. Wilton met them, spoke pleasantly to 
Duane; but Colonel Mallett did not invite his son to 
enter the car, and adieux were said where they stood. 

As the young fellow turned and passed beneath the 
car-windows, he caught a glimpse above him of a heavy- 
jowled, red face into which a cigar was stuck—a per- 
fectly enormous expanse of face with two little aah 
eyes almost buried in the mottled fat. 

339 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ 'That’s Max Moebus,” observed a train hand re- 
spectfully, as Duane passed close to him; “I guess 
there’s more billions into that there private car than 
old Pip’s crowd can dig out of their pants pockets on 
pay day.” 

A little, dry-faced, chin-whiskered man with a loose 
pot-belly and thin legs came waddling along, followed 
by two red-capped negroes with his luggage. He 
climbed up the steps of the ‘* Cyane”; the train man 
winked at Duane, who had turned to watch him. 

* Amos Flack,” he said. ‘ He’s their ‘ lobbygow.’ ” 
With which contemptuous information he spat upon the 
air-brakes and, shoving both hands into his pockets, 
meditatively jingled a bunch of keys. — 


The club was absolutely deserted that night; Duane 
dined there alone, then wandered into the great empty 
room facing Fifth Avenue, his steps echoing sharply 
across the carpetless floor. The big windows were 
open; there was thunder in the air—the sonorous still- 
ness in which voices and footsteps in the street ring out 
ominously. 

He smoked and watched the dim forms of those 
whom the heat drove forth into the night, men with 
coats over their arms and straw hats in their hands, 
young girls thinly clad in white, bare-headed, moving 
two and two with dragging steps and scarcely spirit left 
even for common se or any response to the jest- 
ing oafs who passed. 

Here and there a cruising street-dryad threaded the 
by-paths of the metropolitan jungle; here and there a 
policeman, gray helmet in hand, stood mopping his face, 
night-club tucked up snugly under one arm. Few cabs 


were moving; at intervals a creaking, groaning omnibus 
340 


DYSART 








rolled past, its hurricane deck white with the fluttering 
gowns of women and young girls. 

Somebody came into the room behind him; Duane 
turned, but could not distinguish who it was in the dusk. 
A little while later the man came over to where he sat, 
and he looked up; and it was Dysart. 

There was silence for a full minute; Dysart stood 
by the window looking out; Duane paid him no further 
attention until he wheeled slowly and said: 

** Do you mind if I have a word with you, Mallett? ” 

** Not if it is necessary.” 

**T don’t know whether it is necessary.” 

* Don’t bother about it if you are in the slightest . 
doubt.” 

Dysart waited a moment, perhaps for some unpleas- 
ant emotion to subside; then: 

* T’ll sit down a moment, if you permit.” 

He dropped into one of the big, deep, leather chairs 
and touched the bell. A servant came; he looked across 
at Duane, hesitated to speak: 

‘Thank you,” said Duane curtly. “Ive cut it 
out.” 

“Scotch. Bring the decanter,” murmured Dysart 
to the servant. 

When it was served he drained the glass, refilled it, 
and turned in the rest of the mineral water. Before he 
spoke he emptied the glass again and rang for more 
mineral water. Then he looked at Duane and said in a 
low voice: 

“I thought you were worried the other day when I 
saw you at my house.” 

** What is that to you?” 

Dysart said: “ You were very kind—under provo- 
cation.” 

841 


THE DANGER MARK 








“IT was not kind on your account.” 

“T understand. But I don’t forget such things.” 

Duane glanced at him in profound contempt. Here 
was the stereotyped scoundrel with the classical saving 
trait—the one conventionally inevitable impulse for 
good shining like a diamond on a muck-heap—his ap- 
parently disinterested affection for his father. 

“You were very decent to me that day,” Dysart 
said. ‘“‘ You had something to say to me—but were 
good enough not to. I came over to-night to give you 
a chance to curse me out. It’s the square thing to do.” 

“What do you know about square dealing? ” 

“Go on.” 

““T have nothing to add.” 

“Then I have if you’ll let me.” He paused; the 
other remained silent. ‘“ I’ve this to say: you are wor- 
ried sick; I saw that. What worries you concerns your 
father. You were merciful to mine. I'll do what I can 
for you.” 

He swallowed half of what remained in his iced 
glass, set it back on the table with fastidious precision: 

“The worst that can happen to your father is to 
lose control of the Yo Espero property. I think he is 
going to lose it. They’ve crowded me out. If I could 
have endured the strain I’d have stood by your father— 
for what you did for mine. . . . But I couldn’t, Mal- 
Jett.” 

He moistened his lips again; leaned forward: 

“TI think I know one thing about you, anyway; and 
I’m not afraid you’d ever use any words of mine against 
me———” 

* Don’t say them!” retorted Duane sharply. 

But Dysart went on: 

“You have no respect for me. You found out one 

342 


DYSART 








thing about me that settled me in your opinion. Out- 
side of that, however, you never liked me.” 

“That is perfectly true.” 

“JT know it. And I want to say now that it was 
smouldering irritation from that souree—wounded van- 
ity, perhaps—coupled with worry and increasing cares, 
that led to that outburst of mine. I never really be- 
lieved that my wife needed any protection from the sort 
of man you are. You are not that kind.” 

“That also is true.” 

“ And I know it. And now I’ve cleared up these 
matters; and there’s another.” He bit his lip, thought 
a moment, then with a deep, long breath: 

* When you struck me that night deserved it. I 
was half crazy, I think—with what I had done—with 
a more material but quite as ruinous situation develop- 
ing here in town—with domestic complications—never 
mind where all the fault lay—it was demoralising me. 
Do you think that I am not perfectly aware that I 
stand very much alone among men? Do you suppose 
that I am not aware of my personal unpopularity as 
far as men are concerned? I have never had an intimate 
friend—except Delancy Grandcourt. And I’ve treated 
him like a beast. There’s something wrong about me; 
there always has been.” 

He slaked his thirst again ; his hand shook so that he 
nearly dropped the glass: 

* Which is preliminary,” he went on, “to saying to 
you that no matter what I said in access of rage, I never 
doubted that your encounter with—Miss Quest—was 
an accident. I never doubted that your motive in com- 
ing to me was generous. God knows why I said what I 
did say. You struck me; and you were justified. ... 
And that clears up that!” 

28 343 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Dysart,” said the other, “ you don’t have to tell 
me these things.” 

“Would you rather not have heard them? ” 

Duane thought a moment. 

“TI would rather have heard them, I believe.” 

“Then may I go on? ” 

‘Ts there anything more to explain between us? ” 

“No. .. . But I would like to say somethng—in 
my own behalf. Not that it matters to you—or to any 
man, perhaps, except my father. I would like to say it, 
Mallett.” 

* Very well.” 

“Then; I prefer that you should believe I am not 
a crook. Not that it matters to you; but I prefer that 
you do not believe it. . . . You-have read enough in the 
papers to know what I mean. I’m telling you now what 
I have never uttered to any man; and I haven’t the 
slightest fear you will repeat it or use it in any manner 
to my undoing. It is this: 

*'The men with whom I was unwise enough to be- 
come partially identified are marked for destruction by 
the Clearing House Committee and by the Federal Gov- 
ernment. I know it; others know it. Which means the 
ruthless elimination of anything doubtful which in 
future might possibly compromise the financial stability 
of this city. 

“It is a brutal programme; the policy they are pur- 
suing is bitterly unjust. Innocent and guilty alike are 
going to suffer; I never in all my life consciously did 
a crooked thing in business; and yet I say to you now 
that these people are bent on my destruction; that they 
mean to force us to close the doors of the Algonquin ; 
that they are planning the ruin of every corporation, 
every company, every bank, every enterprise with which 

344 


DYSART 








I am connected, merely because they have decreed the 
financial death of Moebus and Klawber!” 

He made a trembling gesture with clenched hand, 
and leaned farther forward: 

“Mallett! There is not one man to-day in Wall 
Street who has not done, and who is not doing daily, 
the very things for which the government officials and 
the Clearing House authorities are attempting to get 
rid of me. Their attacks on my securities will ulti- 
mately ruin me; but such attacks would ruin any finan- 
cier, any bank in the United States, if continued long 
enough. 

“ Doesn’t anybody know that when the government 
conspires with the Clearing House officials any security 
can be kicked out of the market? Don’t they know that 
when bank examiners class any securities as undesirable, 
and bank officials throw them out from the loans of such 
institutions, that they’re not worth the match struck to 
burn them into nothing? 

“If they mean to close my companies and bring 
charges against me, I'll tell you now, Mallett, any 
official of any bank which to-day is in operation, can be. 
indicted ! ” 

He sat breathing fast, hands clasped nervously be- 
tween his knees. Duane, painfully impressed, waited. 
And after a moment Dysart spoke again: 

“They mean my ruin. There is a bank examiner at 
work—this very moment while we’re sitting here—on 
the Collect Pond Bank—which is mine. The Federal in- 
quisitors went through it once; now a new one is back 
again. They found nothing with which to file an ad- 
verse report the first time. Why did they come back? 

“And T’ll tell you another thing, Mallett, which 
may seem a slight reason for my sullenness and quick 

845 


THE DANGER MARK 








temper; they’ve had secret-service men following me 
ever since I returned from Roya-Neh. They are into 
everything that I’ve ever been connected with; there is 
no institution, no security in which I am interested, that 
they have not investigated. 

“ And I tell you also, incredible as it may sound, 
that there is no security in which I am interested which 
is not now being attacked by government officials, and 
which, as a result of such attacks, is not depreciating 
daily. I tell you they’ve even approached the United 
States Court for its consent to a ruinous disposal of 
certain corporation notes in which I am interested! 
Will you tell me what you think of that, Mallett? ” 

Duane said: “I don’t know, Dysart. I know almost 
nothing about such matters. And—I am sorry that 
you are in trouble.” 

The silence remained unbroken for some time; then 
Dysart stood up: 

**T don’t offer you my hand. You took it once for 
my father’s sake. That was manly of you, Mallett... . 
I thought perhaps I might lighten your anxiety about 
your father. I hope I have. . . . And I must ask your 
pardon for pressing my private affairs upon you ”—he 
laughed mirthlessly— merely because I’d rather you 
didn’t. think me a crook—for my father’s sake. ... 
Good-night.” 

* Dysart,” he said, “ why in God’s name have you 
behaved as you have to—that girl? ” 

Dysart stood perfectly motionless, then in a voice 
under fair control: 

“T understand you. You don’t intend that as im- 
pertinence; you’re a square man, Mallett—a man who 
suffers under the evil in others. And your question to 
me meant that you thought me not entirely hopeless ; 

346 


DYSART 








that there was enough of decency in me to arouse your 
interest. Isn’t that what you meant?” 

“Yes, I think so.” 

“Well, then, P’ll answer you. There isn’t much left 
of me; there’ll be less left of my fortune before long. 
I’ve made a failure of everything, fortune, friendship, | 
position, happiness. My wife and I are separated; it is 
club gossip, I believe. She will probably sue for divorce 
and get it. And I ask you, because I don’t know, can 
any amends be made to—the person you mentioned—by 
my offering her the sort and condition of man I now 
am? ” 

*“'You’ve got to, haven’t you?” asked Duane. 

“Oh! Is that it? A sort of moral formality?” 

““Tt’s conventional; yes. It’s expected.” 

“ By whom? ” 

** All the mess that goes to make up this compost 
heap we call society. . . . I think she also would ex- 
pect it.” 

Dysart nodded. 

“Tf you could make her happy it would square a 
great many things, Dysart.” 

The other looked up: “ You? ” 

**J—don’t know. Yes, in many ways; in that way 
at all events—if you made her happy.” 

Dysart stepped forward: “ Would you be nice to 
her if I did? No other soul in the world knows except 
you. Other people would be nice to her. Would you? 
And would you have the woman you marry receive 
her? ” 

“ce Yes.”? 

“That is square of you, Mallett. . . . I meant to 
do it, anyway. . . . Thank you. . . . Good-night.” 

* Good-night,” said Duane in a low voice. 


347 


THE DANGER MARK 








He returned to the house late that night, and found 
a letter from Geraldine awaiting him; the first in three 
days. Seated at the library table he opened the letter 
and saw at once that the red-pencilled cross at the top 
was missing. 

Minutes passed; the first line blurred under his va- 
cant gaze, for his eyes travelled no farther. Then the 
letter fell to the table; he dropped his head in his arms. 

It was a curiously calm letter when he found cour- 
age to read it: 


*T’ve lost a battle after many victories. It went 
against me after a hard fight here alone at Roya-Neh. 
I think you had better come up. The fight was on 
again the next night—that is, night before last, but 
I’ve held fast so far and expect to. Only I wish you’d 
come. 

‘It is no reproach to you if I say that, had you 
been here, I might have made a better fight. You 
couldn’t be here; the shame of defeat is all my own. 

** Duane, it was not a disastrous defeat in one way. 
I held out for four days, and thought I had won out. I 
was stupefied by loss of sleep, I think; this is not in ex- 
cuse, only the facts which I lay bare for your consid- 
eration. 

** The defeat was in a way a concession—a half-dazed 
compromise—merely a parody on a real victory for the 
enemy; because it roused in me a horror that left the 
enemy almost no consolation, no comfort, even no phys- 
ical relief. The enemy is I myself, you understand— 
that other self we know about. 

“She was perfectly furious, Duane; she wrestled 
with me, fought to make me yield more than I had— 
which was almost nothing—begged me, brutalised me, 

348 


DYSART 








pleaded, tormented, cajoled. I was nearly dead when 
the sun rose; but I had gone through it. 

“TI wish you could come. She is still watching me. 
It’s an armed truce, but I know she’ll break it if the 
chance comes. There is no honour in her, Duane, no 
faith, no reason, no mercy. I know her. 

“Can you not come? I won’t ask it if your father 
needs you. Only if he does not, I think you had better 
come very soon. 

‘** When may I restore the red cross to the top of my 
letters to you? I suppose I had better place it on the 
next letter, because if I do not you might think that 
another battle had gone against me. 

* Don’t reproach me. I couldn’t stand it just now. 
Because I am a very tired girl, Duane, and what has 
happened is heavy in my heart—heavy on my head and 
shoulders like that monster Sindbad bore. 

“Can you come and free me? One word—your 
arms around me—and I am safe. 


66 G. Ss.” 


As he finished, a maid came bearing a telegram on 
a salver. 

“Tell him to wait,” said Duane, tearing open the 
white night-message : 


‘Your father is ill at San Antonio and wishes you 
to come at once. Notify your mother but do not alarm 
her. Your father’s condition is favorable, but the out- 
come is uncertain. 

“ Wetts, Secretary.” 


Duane took three telegram blanks from the note- 
paper rack and wrote: 
349 


THE DANGER MARK 








** My father is ill at San Antonio. They have just 
wired me, and I shall take the first train. Stand by me 
now. Win out for my sake. I put you on your honour 
until I can reach you.” 

And to his father: 

**T leave on first train for San Antonio. It’s going 
to be all right, father.” 

And to his mother: 

** Am leaving for San Antonio because I don’t think 
father is well enough to travel alone. I'll write you and 
wire you. Love to you and Naida.” 

He gave the maid the money, turned, and unhooking 
the receiver of the telephone, called up the Grand Cen- 
tral Station. 


CHAPTER XVI 
THROUGH THE WOODS 


Tue autumn quiet at Roya-Neh was intensely agree- 
able to Scott Seagrave. No social demands interfered 
with a calm and dignified contemplation of the Rose- 
beetle, Melolontha subspinosa, and -his_ scandalous 
“Life History ”; there was no chatter of girls from 
hall and stairway to distract the loftier inspirations that 
possessed him, no intermittent soprano noises emitted by 
fluttering feminine fashion, no calflike barytones from 
masculine adolescence to drive him to the woods, where 
it was always rather difficult for him to focus his atten- 
tion on printed pages. The balm of heavenly silence 
pervaded the house, and in its beneficent atmosphere he 
worked in his undershirt, inhaling inspiration and the 
aroma of whale-oil, soap, and carbolic solutions. 

Neither Kathleen nor his sister being present to 
limit his operations, the entire house was becoming a 
vast mess. Living-rooms, library, halls, billiard-room, 
were obstructed with “ scientific ” paraphernalia; hun- 
dreds of glass fruit jars, filled with earth containing the 
whitish, globular eggs of the Rose-beetle, encumbered 
mantel and furniture; glass aquariums half full of 
earth, sod, and youthful larve of the same sinful beetle 
lent pleasing variety to the monotony of Scott’s inte- 
rior decorative effects. Microscopes, phials, shallow 
trays bristling with sprouting seeds, watering-cans, 
note-books, buckets of tepid water, jars brimming with 

24 351 


THE DANGER MARK 








chemical solutions, blockaded the legitimate and natural 
runways of chamber-maid, parlour-maid, and house- 
keeper ; a loud scream now and then punctured the sci- 
entific silence, recording the Hibernian discovery of 
some large, green caterpillar travelling casually some- 
where in the house. 

“Mr. Seagrave, sir,” stammered Lang, the second 
man, perspiring horror, “ your bedroom is full of 
humming birds and bats, sir, and I can’t stand it no 
more! ” 

But it was only a wholesale hatching of huge hawk- 
moths that came whizzing around Lang when he turned 
on the electric lights; and which, escaping, swarmed 
throughout the house, filling it with their loud, feathery 
humming, and the shrieks of Milesian domestics. 

And it was into these lively household conditions that 
Kathleen and Geraldine unexpectedly arrived from the 
Berkshires, worn out with ‘their round of fashionable 
visits, anxious for the quiet and comfort that is sup- 
posed to be found only under one’s own roof-tree. 
This is what they found: 

In Geraldine’s bath-tub a colony of water-lilies were 
attempting to take root for the benefit of several species 
of water-beetles. The formidable larve of dragon-flies 
occupied Kathleen’s bath; turtles peered at them from 
vantage points under the modern plumbing; an enor- 
mous frog regarded Kathleen solemnly from the wet, 
tiled floor. ‘Oh, dear,” she said as Scott greeted her 
rapturously, “have I got to move all these horrid 
creatures? ” 

“* For Heaven’s sake don’t touch a thing,” protested 
Scott, welcoming his sister with a perfunctory kiss; 
“V’ll find places for them in a minute.” 

“How could you, Scott!” exclaimed Geraldine, 

352 


THROUGH THE WOODS 








backing hastily away from a branch of green leaves on 
which several gigantic horned caterpillars were feed- 
ing. “I don’t feel like ever sleeping in this room 
again,” she added, exasperated. 

“Why, Sis,” he explained mildly, “ those are the 
caterpillars of the magnificent Regal moth! They’re 
perfectly harmless, and it’s jolly to watch them tuck 
away walnut leaves. You'll like to have them here in 
your room when you understand how to weigh them on 
these bully little scales I’ve just had sent up from 
Tiffany’s.” 

But his sister was too annoyed and too tired to 
speak. She stood limply leaning against Kathleen while 
her brother disposed of his uncanny menagerie, talking 
away very cheerfully all the while absorbed in his grew- 
some pets. 

But it was not to his sister, it was to Kathleen that 
his pride in his achievements was naively displayed; his 
running accompaniment of chatter was for Kathleen’s 
benefit, his appeals were to her sympathy and under- 
standing, not to his sister’s. 

Geraldine watched him in silence. Tired, not physi- 
cally very well, this home-coming meant something to 
her. She had looked forward to it, and to her brother, 
unconsciously wistful for the protection of home and 
kin. For the day had been a hard one; she was able 
to affix the red-cross mark to her letter to Duane that 
morning, but it had been a bad day for her, very bad. 

And now as she stood there, white, nerveless, fa- 
tigued, an ache grew in her breast, a dull desire for 
somebody of her own kin to lean on; and, following it, 
a slow realisation of how far apart from her brother she 
had drifted since the old days of cordial understanding 
in the schoolroom—the days of loyal sympathy through 

353 


THE DANGER MARK 








calm and stress, in predatory alliance or in the frank 
conflicts of the squared circle. 

Suddenly her whole heart filled with a blind need 
of her brother’s sympathy—a desire to return to the 
old intimacy as though in it there lay comfort, pro-. 
tection, sanctuary for herself from all that threatened 
her—herself ! 

Kathleen was assisting Scott to envelop the frog 
in a bath towel for the benevolent purpose of trans- 
planting him presently to some other bath-tub; and 
Kathleen’s golden head and Scott’s brown one were very 
close together, and they were laughing in that intimate 
undertone characteristic of thorough understanding. 
Her brother’s expression as he looked up at Kathleen 
Severn, was a revelation to his sister, and it pierced her 
with a pang of loneliness so keen that she started for- 
ward in sheer desperation, as though to force a path 
through something that was pushing her away from 
him. 

“Let me take his frogship,” she said with a nerv- 
ous laugh. “T’ll put him into a jolly big tub where 
you can grow all the water-weeds you like, Scott.” 

Her brother, surprised and gratified, handed her the 
bath-towel in the depths of which reposed the batra- 
chian. 

* He’s really an interesting fellow, Sis,” explained 
Scott; “he exudes a sticky, viscous fluid from his 
pores which is slightly toxic. I’m going to try it on a 
Rose-beetle.” 

Geraldine shuddered, but forced a smile, and, holding 
the imprisoned one with dainty caution, bore him to 
a palatial and porcelain-lined bath-tub, into which she 
shook him with determination and a suppressed shriek. 

That night at dinner Scott looked up at his sister 

354 


> 


THROUGH THE WOODS 








with something of the old-time interest and con- 
fidence. 

“IT was pretty sure you’d take an interest in all 
these things, sooner or later. I tell you, Geraldine, it 
_will be half the fun if you’ll go into it with us.” 

“TI want to,” said his sister, smiling, “‘ but don’t 
hurry my progress or you'll scare me half to death.” 

The tragic necessity for occupation, for interesting 
herself in something sufficient to take her out of her- 
self, she now understood, and the deep longing for the 
love of all she had of kith and kin was steadily tight- 
ening its grip on her, increasing day by day. Nothing 
else could take its place; she began to understand that ; 
not her intimacy with Kathleen, not even her love for 
Duane. Outside of these there existed a zone of loneli- 
ness in which she was doomed to wander, a zone peopled 
only by the phantoms of the parents she had never 
known long enough to remember—a dreaded zone of 
solitude and desolation and peril for her. The danger 
line marked its boundary ; beyond lay folly and destruc- 
tion. 
Little by little Scott began to notice that his sister 
evidently found his company desirable, that she fol- 
lowed him about, watching his so-called scientific pur- 
suits with a curiosity too constant to be assumed. And 
it pleased him immensely; and at times he held forth to 
her and instructed her with brotherly condescension. 

He noticed, too, that her spirits did not appear to 
be particularly lively; there were often long intervals 
of silence when, together by the window in the library 
where he was fussing over his “ Life History,” she never 
spoke, never even moved from her characteristic atti- 
tude—seated deep in a leather chair, arms resting on the 
padded chair-arms, ankles crossed, and her head a trifle 

355 


THE DANGER MARK 








lowered, as though absorbed in studying the Herati di- 
sign on a Persian rug. 

Once, looking up suddenly, he surprised her brown 
eyes full of tears. 

“ Hello! ” he said, amazed; “* what’s the row, Sis? ” 

But she only laughed and dried her eyes, denying 
that there was any explanation except that girls were 
sometimes that way for no reason at all. 

One day.he asked Kathleen privately about this, 
but she merely confirmed Geraldine’s diagnosis of the 
phenomenon: 

** Tears come into girls’ eyes,” she said, “ and there 
isn’t anybody on earth who can tell a man why, and 
he wouldn’t comprehend it if anybody did tell him.” 

“T’ll tell you one thing,” he said sceptically; “ if 
Rose-beetles shed tears, I’d never rest until I found out 
why. You bet there’s always a reason that starts any- 
thing and always somebody to find it out and tell an- 
other fellow who can understand it!” 

With which brilliant burst of higher philosophy 
they went out into the October woods together to hunt 
for cocoons. 

Geraldine, rather flushed and nervous, met them at 
Hurryon Gate, carrying a rifle and wearing the short- 
est skirts her brother had ever beheld. ‘The symmetry 
of her legs moved him to reproof: 

“JT thought people looked that way only in tailor’s 
fashion plates,” he said. ‘“ What are you after—chip- 
munks? ” 

* Not at all,” said his sister. ‘“ Do you know what 
happened to me an hour ago? I was paddling your 
canoe into the Hurryon Inlet, and I suppose I made 
no noise in disembarking, and I came right on a baby 
wild boar in the junipers. It was a tiny thing, not 

356 


THROUGH THE WOODS 








eighteen inches long, Kathleen, and so cunning and 
furry and yellowish, with brown stripes on its back, 
that I tried to catch it—just to hug it.” 

“That was silly,” said her brother. 

“TI know it was, now. Because I ran after it, and 
it ran; and, one by one, a whole herd of the cunning 
little things sprang out of the hemlock scrub and went 
off bucking and bucketing in all directions, and I, like 
a simpleton, hard after one of them ; 

“‘ Little idiot,” said her brother solicitously. “ Are 
you stark mad? ” 

“No, I’m just plain mad. Because, before I 
knew it, there came a crash in the underbrush and 
the biggest, furriest, and wickedest wild boar I ever 
saw halted in front of me, ears forward, every hair on 
end. $e 








“Lord save us, you jumped the sow! ” groaned her 
brother. ‘ She might have torn you to pieces, you 
ninny!” 

*“* She meant to, I think. The next thing I knew she 
came headlong, mouth open, fairly screaming at me; 
and I turned and jumped clean into the Gray Water. 
Oh, Scott, it was humiliating to have to swim to the 
point with all my clothes on, scramble into the canoe, and 
shove off because a very angry wild creature drove me 
out of my own woods!” 

“Well, dear, you won’t ever interfere with a sow 
and pigs again, will you? ” said Kathleen so earnestly 
that everybody laughed. 

“ What’s the rifle for?” inquired Scott. “You 
don’t intend to hunt for her, do you? ” 

“Of course not. I’m not vindictive or cruel. But 
old Miller said, when I came past the lodge, dripping 
wet, that the boar are increasing too fast and that you 

357 


THE DANGER MARK 








ought to keep them down either by shooting or by 
trapping them, and sending them to other people for 
stocking purposes. The Pink’uns want some; why 
don’t you? ” 

“JT don’t want to shoot or trap them,” said Scott 
obstinately. 

“ Miller says they pulled down deer last winter and 
tore them to shreds. Everything in the forest is afraid 
of them; they drive the deer from the feeding-grounds, 
and I don’t believe a lynx or even any of the bear that 
climb over the fence would dare attack them.” 

Kathleen said: “‘ You really ought to ask some men 
up here to shoot, Scott. I don’t wish to be chased 
about by a boar.” 

** They never bother people,” he protested. ‘‘ What 
are you going to do with that rifle, Geraldine? ” 

‘** My nerve has gone,” she confessed, laughing; “ I 
prefer to have it with me when I take walks. It’s really 
safer,” she added seriously to Kathleen. “ Miller says 
that a buck deer can be ugly, too.” 

“Oh, Lord!” said her brother, laughing; “ it’s 
only because you’re the prettiest thing ever, in that 
hunting dress! Don’t tell me; and kindly be careful 
where you point that rifle.” 

“As if I needed instructions!” retorted his sister. 
“TI wish I could see a boar—a big one with a particu- 
larly frightful temper and tusks to match.” 

“Tl bet you that you can’t kill a boar,” he said 
in good-humoured. disdain. 

**T don’t see any to kill.” 

“ Well, I bet you can’t find one. And if you do, I 
bet you don’t kill him.” 

“‘ How long,” asked Geraldine dangerously, “ does 
that bet hold good? ” 

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“ All winter, if you like. It’s the prettiest single 
jewel you can pick out against a new saddle-horse. I 
need. a gay one; I’m getting out of condition. And all 
our horses are as interesting as chevaux de bois when 
the mechanism is freshly oiled and the organ plays the 
‘Ride of the Valkyries.’ ” 

“I’ve half a mind to take that wager,” said Geral- 
dine, very pink and bright-eyed. ‘I think I will take 
it i ‘s 

“Please don’t, dear,” said Kathleen anxiously. 
“'The keepers say that a wounded boar is perfectly 
horrid sometimes.” 

“Dangerous?” Her eyes glimmered brighter 
still. 

“ Certainly, a wounded boar is dangerous. I heard 
Miller say ? 

* Bosh!” said Scott. “They run away from you 
every time. Besides, Geraldine isn’t going to have 
enough sporting blood in her to take that bet and make 
good.” 

Something in the quick flush and tilt of her head 
reminded Scott of the old days when their differences 
were settled with eight-ounce gloves. The same feel- 
ing possessed his sister, thrilled her like a sudden, un- 
expected glimpse of a happiness which apparently had 
long been ended for ever. 

“Oh, Scott,” she exclaimed, still thrilling, “ it is 
like old times to hear you try to bully me. It’s so long 
since I’ve had enough spirit to defy you. But I do 
now !—oh, yes, I do! Why, I believe that if we had 
the gloves here, I’d make you fight me or take back 
what you said about my not having any sporting 
spirit! ” 

He laughed: “I was thinking of that, too. You’re 

359 








THE DANGER MARK 








a good sport, Sis. Don’t bother to take that wa- 
ger 99 

“T do take it!” she cried; “ it’s like old times and 
I love it. Now, Scott, I’ll show you a boar before we 
go to town or I’ll buy you a horse. No backing out; 
what’s said can’t be unsaid, remember: 





“ King, king, double king, 
Can’t take back a given thing! 
Queen, queen, queen of queens, 
What she promises she means! ” 


That was a very solemn incantation in nursery 
days; she laughed a little in tender tribute to the past. 

Scott was a trifle perturbed. He glanced uneasily 
at Kathleen, who told him very plainly that he had con- 
trived to make her anxious and unhappy. Then she 
fell back into step with Geraldine, letting Scott wan- 
der disconsolately forward: 

“Dear,” she said, passing one arm around the 
younger girl, “I didn’t quite dare to object too 
strongly. You looked so—so interested, so deliciously 
defiant—so like your real self. 41 

“T feel like it to-day, Kathleen; let me turn back 
in my own footsteps—if I can. I’ve been trying so 
very hard to—to get back to where there was no— 
no terror in the world.” 

“JT know. But, darling, you won’t run into any 
danger, will you? ” 

“Do you call a hard-hit beast a danger? I’ve 
wounded a more terrible one than any boar that ever 
bristled. I’m trying to kill something more terrifying. 
And I shall if I live.” 

* You poor, brave little martyr!” whispered Kath- 

360 





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leen, her violet eyes filled’ with sudden tears; ‘ don’t 
you suppose I know what you are doing? Don’t you 
suppose I watch and pray ” 

“Did you know I was really trying?” asked the 
girl, astonished—* I mean before I told you? ” 

* Know it! Angels above! Of course I know it. 
Don’t you suppose I’ve been watching you slowly win- 
ning back to your old dear self—tired, weary-footed, 
desolate, almost hopeless, yet always surely finding 
your way back through the dreadful twilight to the 
dear, sweet, generous self that I know so well—the 
straightforward, innocent, brave little self that grew at 
my knee !—Geraldine—Geraldine, my own dear child! ” 

** Hush—TI did not know you knew. I am trying. 
Once I failed. That was not very long ago, either. Oh, 
Kathleen, I am trying so hard, so hard! And to-day 
has been a dreadful day for me. That is why I went 
off by myself; I paddled until I was ready to drop into 
the lake; and the fright that the boar gave me almost 
ended me; but it could not end desire! . . . So I took 
a rifle—anything to interest me—keep me on my feet 
and moving somewhere—doing something—anything 
—anything, Kathleen—until I can crush it out of me 
—until there’s a chance that I can sleep——” 

“IT know—I know! That is why I dared not re- 
monstrate when I saw you drifting again toward your 
old affectionate relations with Scott. I’m afraid of 
animals—except what few Scott has persuaded me to 
tolerate—butterflies and frogs and things. But if 
anything on earth is going to interest you—take your 
mind off yourself—and bring you and Scott any 
nearer together, I shall not utter one word against it 
—even when it puts you in physical danger and fright- 
ens me. Do you understand? ” 

361 





THE DANGER MARK 








The girl nodded, turned and kissed her. They 
were following a path made by game; Scott was out of 
sight ahead somewhere; they could hear his boots 
crashing through the underbrush. After a while the 
sound died away in the forest. 

“ The main thing,” said Geraldine, “ is to zee a up 
my interest in the world. I want to do things. To sit — 
idle is pure destruction to me. I write to Duane every 
morning, I read, I do a dozen things that require my 
attention—little duties that everybody has. But I 
can’t continue to write to Duane all day. I can’t read 
all day; duties are soon ended. And, Kathleen, it’s 
the idle intervals I dread so—the brooding, the mem- 
ories, the waiting for events scheduled in domestic rou- 
tine—like dinner—the—the terrible waiting for sleep! 
That is the worst. I tell you, physical fatigue must 
help to save me—must help my love for Duane, my 
love for you and Scott, my self-respect—what is left 
of it. This rifle ’—she held it out—* would turn into 
a nuisance if I let it. But I won’t; I can’t; I’ve got to 
use everything to help me.” 

“You ride every day, don’t you?” ventured the 
other woman timidly. 

** Before breakfast. That helps. I wish I had a 
vicious horse to break. I wish there was rough water 
where canoes ought not to go!” she exclaimed fiercely. 
* I need something of that sort.” 

* You drove Scott’s Blue Racer yesterday so fast 
that Felix came to me about it,” said Kathleen gently. 

Geraldine laughed. “It couldn’t go fast enough, 
dear; that was the only trouble.” Then, serious and 
wistful: “If I could only have Duane. . . . Don’t be 
alarmed; I can’t—yet. But if I only could have him 
now! You see, his life is already very full; his work is 

362 


THROUGH THE WOODS 








absorbing him. It would absorb me. I don’t know 
anything about it technically, but it interests me. If 
I could only have him now; think about him every sec- 
ond of the day—to keep me from myself: ‘3 

She checked herself; suddenly her eyes filled, her 
lip quivered: 

“TIT want him now!” she said desperately. ‘ He 
could save me; I know it! I want him now—his love, 
his arms to keep me safe at night! I want him to love 
me—love me! Oh, Kathleen! if I could only have 
him!” 

A delicate colour tinted Kathleen’s face; her ears 
shrank from the girl’s low-voiced cry, with its glimmer 
of a passion scarcely understood. 

Long, long, the memory of his embrace had tor- 
mented her—the feeling of happy safety she had in his 
arms—the contact that thrilled almost past endurance, 
yet filled her with a glorious and splendid strength— 
that set wild pulses beating, wild blood leaping in 
her veins—that aroused her very soul to meet his lips 
and heed his words and be what his behest would have 
her. , 

And the memory of it now possessed her so that she 
stood straight and slim and tall, trembling in the forest 
path, and her dark eyes looked into Kathleen’s with a 
strange, fiery glimmer of pride: 

*“T need him, but I love him too well to take him. 
Can I do more for him than that? ” 

“Oh, my darling, my darling,” said Kathleen brok- 
enly, “if you believe that he can save you—if you 
really feel that he can . 

“T am trying to save myself—I am trying.” She 
turned and looked off through the forest, a straight, 
slender shape in the moving shadows of the leaves. 

363 








THE DANGER MARK 








** But if he could really help you—if you truly be- 
lieve it, dear, I—I don’t know whether you might not 
venture—now: Ys 

“No, dear.” She slowly closed her eyes, remained 
motionless for a moment, drew a deep, long breath, and 
looked up through the sunlit branches overhead. 

“I’ve got to be fair to him,” she said aloud to her- 
self; “I must give myself to him as I ought to be, or 
not at all. . . . That is settled.” 

She turned to Kathleen and took her hand: 

“ Come on, fellow-pilgrim,” she said with an effort 
to smile. ‘‘ My cowardice is over for the present.” 

A few steps forward they sighted Scott coming 
back. He was unusually red in the face and rather ex- 
cited, and he flourished a stick. 

“‘ Of all the infernal impudence!” he said. ‘* What 
do you think has happened to me? I saw a wild boar 
back there—not a very big one—and he came out into 
the trail ahead, and I kept straight on, thinking he’d 
hear me and run. And I’m blessed if the brute didn’t 
whirl around and roughen up, and clatter his tusks 
until I actually had to come to a halt!” 

“JT don’t want to walk in these woods any more,” 
said Kathleen with sudden conviction. ‘ Please come 
home, all of us.” 

“Nonsense,” he said. ‘I won’t stand for being 
hustled out of my own woods. Give me that rifle, Ger- 
aldine.” 

“T certainly will not,” she said, smiling. 

“What! Why not?” 

“ Because it rather looks as though I’m about to 
win my bet with you,” observed Geraldine. ‘‘ Please 
show me your boar, Scott.” And she threw a cartridge 
into the magazine and started forward. 

364 





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“Don’t let her!” pleaded Kathleen. “ Scott, it’s 
ridiculous to let that child do such silly things——” 

“Then stop her if you can,” said Scott gloomily, 
following his sister. “I don’t know anything about — 
wild boar, but I suppose straight shooting will take 
care of them, and Sis can do that if she keeps her 
nerve.” 

Geraldine, hastening ahead, rifle poised, scanned the 
woods with the palpitating curiosity of an amateur. 
Eyes and ears alert, she kept mechanically reassuring 
herself that the thing to do was to shoot straight and 
keep cool, and to keep on shooting whichever way the 
boar might take it into his porcine head to run. 

Scott hastened forward to her side: 

“ Here’s the place,” he said, looking about him. 
** He’s concluded to make off, you see. They usually go 
off ; they only stand when wounded or when they think 
they can’t get away. He’s harmless, I suppose—only 
it made me very tired to have him act that way. I hate 
to be backed out of my own property.” 

Geraldine, rather relieved, yet ashamed not to do 
all she could, began to walk toward a clump of low 
hemlocks. She had heard that wild boar take that sort 
of cover. She did not really expect to find anything 
there, so when a big black streak crashed out ahead of 
her she stood stock still in frozen astonishment, rifle 
clutched to her breast. 

“ Shoot!” shouted her brother. 

“Oh, dear, oh, dear,” she said helplessly, “ he’s 
gone out of sight! And I had such a splendid shot!” 
She stamped with vexation. “What a _ goose!” 
she repeated. “I had a perfectly splendid shot. 
And all I did was to jump like a scared cat and 
stare!” 


365 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ Anyway, you didn’t run, and that’s a point 
gained,” observed her brother. “I had to. And that’s 
one on me.” 

A moment later he said: “I believe those impudent 
boar do need a little thinning out. When is Duane 
coming? ” 

“In November,” said Geraldine, still looking 
vaguely about for the departed pig. 

“ Early?” 

**T think so, if his father is all right again. I’ve 
asked Naida, too. Rosalie wants to come——” 

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t,” he protested. 
** All I wanted was a shooting party to do a little scien- 
tific thinning out of these boar. T’ll do some myself, 
too.” 

Geraldine laughed. ‘“ Rosalie is a dead shot at a 
target, dear. She wrote asking us to invite her to 
shoot. I don’t see how I can very well refuse her. Do 
your” 

“That means her husband, too,” grumbled Scott, 
“and that entire bunch.” 

“No; if it’s a shooting party, I don’t have to ask 
him.” 

Her brother said ungraciously: “* Well, I don’t care 
who you ask if they’ll thin out these cheeky brutes. 
Fancy that two-year-old pig clattering his tusks at 
me, planted there in the path with his mane on end!— 
You know it mortifies me, Kathleen—it certainly does. 
One of these fine days some facetious pig will send me 
shinning up a tree!” He grew madder at the specu- 
lative indignity. “By ginger! I’m going to have a 
shooting party before the snow flies,’ he muttered, 
walking forward between Kathleen and his sister. 
* Keep your eyes out ahead; we may jump another at 

366 


THROUGH THE WOODS 








any time, as the wind is all right. And if we do, let 
him have it, Geraldine! ” 

It was a beautiful woodland through which they: 
moved. 

The late autumn foliage was unusually magnificent, 
lacking, this year, those garish and discordant hues 
which Americans think it necessary to admire. Oak 
brown and elm yellow, deep chrome bronze and sombre 
crimson the hard woods glowed against backgrounds of 
pine and hemlock. Larches were mossy cones of feathery 
gold; birches slim shafts of snowy gray, ochre-crowned ; 
silver and green the balsams’ spires pierced the can- 
opy of splendid tapestry upborne by ash and 
oak and towering pine under a sky of blue so deep 
and intense that the lakes reflecting it seemed no less 
vivid. 

Already in the brooks they passed painted trout 
hung low over every bed of gravel and white sand; the 
male trout wore his best scarlet fins, and his sides 
glowed in alternate patterns, jewelled with ruby and 
sapphire spots. Already the ruffed grouse thundered 
up by coveys, though they had not yet packed, for the 
broods still retained their autonomy. 

But somewhere beyond the royal azure of the 
northern sky, very, very far away, there was cold in 
the world, for even last week, through the violet and 
primrose dusk, out of the north, shadowy winged 
things came speeding, batlike phantoms against the 
dying light—flight-woodcock coming through. hill- 
cleft and valley to the land where summer lingered still. 

And there in mid-forest, right in the tall timber, 
Scott, advancing, flushed a woodcock, which darted up, 
filling the forest with twittering music—the truest mu- 
sic of our eastern autumn, clear, bewildering, charm- 


367 


THE DANGER MARK 








ing in its evanescent sweetness which leaves in its wake 
a startling silence. 

Ahead, lining both sides of a gully deep with last 
year’s leaves, was an oak grove in mid-forest. Here 
the brown earth was usually furrowed by the black 
snouts of wild boar, for mast lay thick here in autumn 
and tender roots invited investigation. 

“Get down flat and crawl,” whispered Scott; 
‘there may be a boar or two on the grounds.” 

Kathleen, in her pretty white gown of lace and 
some sheer stuff, looked at him piteously; but when he 
and Geraldine dropped flat and wriggled forward 
into the wind, misgiving of what might prowl behind 
seized her, and she tucked up her skirts and gave her- 
self to the brown earth with a tremor of indignation 
and despair. 

Nearer and nearer they crept, making very little 
sound; but they made enough to rouse a young boar, 
who jerked his head into the air, where he stood among 
the acorns, big, furry ears high and wide, nose working 
nervously. 

“ He’s only a yearling,” breathed Scott in his sis- 
ter’s ear. ‘“‘ There are traces of stripes, if you look 
hard. Wait for a better one.” 

They lay silent, all three peering down at the year- 
ling, who stood motionless, nosing for tainted air, lis- 
tening, peering about with dull, near-sighted eyes. 

And, after a long time, as they made no sound, the 
brute wheeled suddenly, made a complete circle at a 
nervous trout, uttered a series of short, staccato 
sounds that, when he became older, would become deep- 
er, more of an ominous roar than a hoarse and irri- 
tated grunt. 

Two deer, a doe and a fawn, came picking their 

368 


THROUGH THE WOODS 








way cautiously along the edge of the gully, sometimes 
flattening their ears, sometimes necks outstretched, 
ears forward, peering ahead at the young and bad- 
tempered pig. 

The latter saw them, turned in fury and charged 
with swiftness incredible, and the deer stampeded head- 
long through the forest. 

“What a fierce, little brute!” whispered Kathleen, 
appalled. “ Scott, if he comes any nearer, ’m going 
to get into a tree.” 

** If he sees us or winds us he’ll run. Don’t move; 
there may be a good boar in presently. I’ve thought 
two or three times that I heard something on that hem- 
lock ridge.” 

They listened, holding their breath. Crack! went 
a distant stick. Silence; nothing stirred except the 
yearling who had returned to the mast and was eagerly 
nosing among the acorns. They could hear him 
crunching the husks, see the gleam of long white teeth 
which one day would grow outside that furry muzzle 
and curve up and backward like ivory sabres. 

Geraldine whispered: “ There’s a huge black thing 
moving in the hemlock scrub. I can see its feet against 
the sky-line, and sometimes part of its bulk ie 

“Oh, heavens,’ breathed Kathleen, “ what is that? ” 

Out of the scrub trotted a huge, shaggy, black 
thing, all head and shoulders, with body slanting back 
abruptly to a pair of weak hindquarters. Down the 
slope it ran in quick, noiseless, jerky steps; the year- 
ling turned his head, still munching, ears cocked for- 
ward. And suddenly the monster rushed at him with a 
squeal, and the yearling shrieked and fled, chased clear 
up the slope. 

* It’s a sow ; don’t shoot,” whispered Scott. “ Look, 


369 





THE DANGER MARK 








Sis, you can’t see a sign of tusks. Good heavens, what 
a huge creature she is!” 

Fierce, formidable, the great beast halted ; three 
striped, partly grown pigs came rushing and frisking 
down the gully to join her, filling the forest with their 
clumsy clatter and baby squealing. From the ridge the 
two deer, who had sneaked back, regarded the scene 
with terrified fascination. 

Presently the yearling rushed them out again, then 
sidled down, venturing to the edge of the feeding- 
ground, where he began to crunch acorns again with a 
cautious eye on the sow and her noisy brood. 

Here and there a brilliant blue-jay floated down, 
seized an acorn, and winged hastily to some near tree 
where presently he filled the woods with the noise he 
made in hammering the acorn into some cleft in the 
bark. 

Gradually the sunlight on the leaves reddened; 
long, luminous shadows lengthened eastward. Kath- 
leen, lying at full length, her pretty face between her 
hands, suddenly sneezed. 

The next moment the feeding-ground was de- 
serted; only a distant crashing betrayed the line of 
flight where the great fierce sow and her young were 
rushing upward toward the rocks of the Gilded Dome. 

“T’m so sorry,” faltered Kathleen, very pink and 
embarrassed. 

Geraldine sat up and Lnlaghnd, laying the uncocked 
rifle across her knees. 

* Some of these days I’m going to win my wager,” 
she said to her brother. “ And it won’t be with a 
striped yearling, either; it will be with the biggest, 
shaggiest, fiercest, tuskiest boar that ranges the 
Gilded Dome. And that,” she added, looking at Kath- 

370 


THROUGH THE WOODS 








leen, “ will give me something to think of and keep 
me rather busy, I believe.” 

** Rather,” observed her brother, getting up and 
helping Kathleen to her feet. He added, to torment 
her: “‘ Probably you’ll get Duane to win your bet for 
you, Sis.” 

“No,” said the girl gravely; “whatever is to die 
I must slay all by myself, Scott—all alone, with no 
man’s help.” 

He nodded: “ Sure thing; it’s the only sporting 
way. There’s no stunt to it; only keep cool and keep 
shooting, and drop him before he comes to close quar- 
ters.” 

** Yes,” she said, looking up at Kathleen. 

Her brother drew her to her feet. She gave him a 
little hug. 

** Believe in me, dear,” she said.  J’Il do it easier 
if you do.” 

“Of course I do. You’re a better sport than I. 
You always were. And that’s no idle jest; witness my 
nose and Duane’s in days gone by.” 

The girl smiled. As they turned homeward she 
slung her rifle, passed her right arm through Kath- 
leen’s, and dropped her left on her brother’s shoulder. 
She was very tired, and hopeful that she might sleep. 

And tired, hopeful, thinking of her lover, she passed 
through the woods, leaning on those who were nearest 
and most dear. 

Somehow—and just why was not clear to her—it 
seemed at that moment as though she had passed the 
danger mark—as though the very worst lay behind her 
—close, scarcely clear of her skirts yet, but all the 
same it lay behind her, not ahead. 

She knew, and dreaded, and shrank from what still 

371 


THE DANGER MARK 








lay before her; she understood into what ruin treachery 
to self might precipitate her still at any moment. And 
yet, somehow, she felt vaguely that something had been 
gained that day which never before had been gained. 
And she thought of her lover as she passed through 
the forest, leaning on Scott and Kathleen, her little 
feet keeping step with theirs, her eyes steady in the red 
western glare that flooded the forest to an infernal 
beauty. 

Behind her streamed her gigantic shadow; behind 
her lay another shadow, cast by her soul and floating 
wide of itnow. And it must never touch her soul again, 
God helping. 

Suddenly her heart almost ceased its beating. Far 
away within, stirring in unsuspected depths, something 
moved furtively. 

Her face whitened a little; her eyes closed, the lids 
fluttered, opened; she gazed straight in front of her, 
walked on, small head erect, lips firm, facing the hell 
that lay before her—lay surely, surely before her. 
For the breath of it glowed already in her veins and 
the voices of it were already busy in her ears, and the 
unseen stirring of it had begun once more within her 
body—that tired white, slender body of hers which had 
endured so bravely and so long. 

If sleep would only aid her, come to her in her 
need, be her ally in the peril of her solitude—if it 
would only come, and help her to endure! 

And wondering if it would, not knowing, hoping, 
she walked onward through the falling night. 


CHAPTER XVII 
THE DANGER MARK 


Her letters to him still bore the red cross: 

“TI understand perfectly why you cannot come,” she 
wrote; “I would do exactly as you are doing if I had 
a father. It must be a very great happiness to have 
one. My need of you is not as great as his; I can hold 
my own alone, I think. You see I am doing it, and you 
must not worry. Only, dear, when you have the op- 
portunity, come up if only for a day.” 

And again, in November: 

* You are the sweetest boy, and it is not difficult 
to understand why your father cannot endure to have 
you out of his sight. But is this not a very heavy strain 
on you? Of course your mother and Naida must not 
be left alone with him; you are the only son, and your 
place is there. 

“Dear, I know what you are going through is 
one of the most dreadful things that any man is called 
upon to bear—your father stricken, your mother and 
sister prostrate; the newspapers—for I have read them 
—cruel beyond belief! But whatever they say, what- 
ever is true or untrue, Duane, remember that it cannot 
affect my regard for you and yours. 

“If I had a father, whatever he might have done, 
or permitted others to do, would not, could not alter my 
affection for him. 

“Men say that women have no sense of honour. I 

373 


THE DANGER MARK 








do not know what that sense may be if it falters when 
loyalty and compassion are needed, too. 

**T have read the papers; I know only what I read 
and what you tell me. The rules that custom has framed 
to safeguard and govern financial operations, I do 
not understand; but, as far as I can comprehend, it 
seems to me that custom has hitherto sanctioned what 
disaster has now placed under a bann. It seems to 
me that the very men who now blame your father have 
all done successfully what he did so disastrously. 

“One thing I know: no kinder, dearer man than 
your father ever lived; and I love him, and I love his 
family, and I will marry his son when I am fit to do it.” 

And again she wrote: 

“TI saw in the papers that the Algonquin Trust 
Company had closed its doors; I read the heartbreaking 
details of the crowds besieging it, the lines of fright- 
ened people standing there in the rain all night long. 
It is dreadful, terrible! 

“Who are these Wall Street men who would not 
help the Algonquin when they could? Why is the Clear- 
ing House so bitter? I don’t know what it all means; I 
read columns about poor Jack Dysart—words and fig- 
ures and technical phrases and stock quotations—and 
it means nothing, and I understand nothing of it save 
that it is all a fierce outcry against him and against 
the men with whom he was financially involved. 

“ The papers are so gloomy, so eager in their search 
for evil, so merciless, so exultant when scandal is un- 
earthed, that I can scarcely bear to read them. Why 
do they drag in unhappy people who know nothing 
about these matters? The interview with your mother 
and Naida, which you say is false, was most dreadful. 
How cruel men are! 

374 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ Tell them I love them dearly ; tell your father, too. 
And, dear, I don’t know exactly how Scott and I are 
situated, but if we can be of any financial use to you, 
please, please let us! Our fortune, when it came to us, 
was, I believe, all in first mortgages and railroad secur- 
ities. I believe that Scott made some changes in our 
investments under advice from your cea I don’t 
know what they were. 

“Don’t bother your father with such details now; 
he has enough to think of lying there in his grief, be- 
wildered, broken in mind and body. Duane, is it not 
more merciful that he is unable to understand what the 
papers are saying? 

* Dear, heart and soul I am loyal to you and yours.” 

She wrote again: 

“Yes, I had a talk with Scott. I did not know 
he had been receiving all those letters from your attor- 
neys. Magnelius Grandcourt manages the investments. 
Scott’s brokers are Stainer & Elting; our attorneys 
are, as you know, Landon, Brooks & Gayfield. 

“Duane, I absolutely forbid you to worry. My 
brother is of age, sound in mind and body, responsible 
for whatever he does or has done. It is his affair if he 
solicits advice, his affair if he follows it. Your father 
has no responsibility whatever in the matter of the Cas- 
cade Development and Securities Company. Besides, 
Scott tells me that what he did was against the advice 
of Mr. Tappan. 

“TI remember last winter that he brought a Mr. 
Skelton to luncheon, and a horrid man named Klawber. 

“Poor Scott! He certainly knows nothing about 
business matters. I know he had no desire to increase 
his private fortune; he tells me that what interested 

him in the Cascade Development and Securities Com- 
25 375 


THE DANGER MARK 








pany was the chance that cheap radium might stimulate 
scientific research the world over. Poor Scott! 

** Dear, you are not to think for one instant that 
any trouble which may involve Scott is due to you or 
yours. And if it were, Duane, it could make no differ- 
ence to him or tome. Money and what it buys is such a 
pitiful detail in what goes to make up happiness. Who 
but I should understand that! 

“Loss of social prestige and position is a serious 
matter, I suppose; I may show my ignorance and in- 
experience when I tell you how much more serious to 
me are other things—like the loss of faith in one’s self 
or in others—or the loss of the gentler virtues, which 
means the loss of what one once was. 

** The loss of honour is, as you say, a pitiful thing; 
yet, I think that when that happens, love and compas- 
sion were never more truly needed. 

* Honour, as I understand it, is not to take advan- 
tage of others or of one’s better self. This is a young 
girl’s definition. I cannot see—if one has yielded once 
to temptation, and truly repents—why honour cannot 
be regained. 

“The honour of men and nations that seems to re- 
quire arrogance, aggression, violence for its defence, I 
do not understand. How can the misdeeds of others 
impair one’s true honour? How can punishment for 
such misdeeds restore it? No; it lies within one, quite 
intangible save by one’s self. 

“Why should I not know, dear?—I who have lost 
my own and found it, have held it desperately for a 
while, then lost it, then regained it, holding it again as 
I do now—alas !—against no other enemy than I who 
write this record for your eyes! 

_“ Dear, I know of nothing lost which may not be re- 

376 


THE DANGER MARK 








gained, except life. I know of nothing which cannot 
be rendered tolerable through loyalty. 

“That material happiness which means so much to 
some, means now so very little to me, perhaps because 
I have never lacked it. 

“Yet I know that, once mistress of myself, nothing 
else could matter unless your love failed.” . 

Again she wrote him toward the end of November: 

“Why will you not let me help you, dear? My 
fortune is practically intact so far, except that, of 
course, I met those obligations which Scott could not 
meet. Poor Scott! 

“You know it’s rather bewildering to me where 
millions go to. I don’t quite comprehend how they 
can so utterly vanish in such a short time, even in 
such a frightful fiasco as the Cascade Development 
Company. 

“So many people have been here—Mr. Landon and 
Mr. Gayfield, Mr. Stainer of Elting & Stainer, that 
dreadful creature Klawber, a very horrid man named 
Amos Flack—and dear, grim, pig-headed Mr. Tappan 
—old Remsen Tappan of all men! 

“He practically kicked out Mr. Flack and the crea- 
ture Klawber, who had been trying to frighten Scott 
and me and even our lawyers. 

* And think, Duane! He never uttered one sarcasm, 
one reproach for Scott’s foolishness; he sat grim and 
rusty as the iron that he once dealt in, listening to what 
Scott had to tell him, never opening that cragged jaw, 
never unclosing that thin line of cleavage which is his 
mouth. 

“We did not know what he had come for; but we 
know now. He is so good—so good, Duane! And I, 
who hated him as a child, as a girl—I am almost too 


377 


THE DANGER MARK 








ashamed to let him take command and untangle for us, 
with those knotted, steel-sinewed fingers of his, the 
wretched, tangled mess that has coiled around Scott 
and me. 

“ Surely, this man Klauber is a very great villain ; 
and it seems that Mr. Skelton and the wretched Flack 
creature are little less. As for Jack Dysart, it is all 
too sorrowful to think about. How must he feel! 
Surely, surely he could not have known what he was 
doing. He must have been desperate to go to Delancy 
Grandcourt. It was wrong; nothing on earth could 
have propped up the Algonquin, and why did he let his 
best friend go down with it? 

** But it was fine of Delancy to stand by him—fine, 
fine! His father is perfectly furious, but, Duane, it 
was fine! 

* And now, dear, about Scott. It will amuse you, 
and perhaps horrify you, if I tell you that he has not 
turned a hair. 

“ Not that he doesn’t care; not that he is not more 
or less mortified. But he blames nobody except himself ; 
and he’s laying plans quite cheerfully for a career on a 
small income that really does not require the austerity 
and frugality he imagines. 

‘One thing is certain; the town house is to be sold. 
My income is not sufficient to maintain it and Roya- 
Neh, and live as we do, and have anything left. I 
don’t yet know how far my fortune is involved, but I 
have a very unpleasant premonition that there is going 
to be much less left than anybody believes, and that 
ultimately we ought to sell Roya-Neh. 

** However, it is far too early to speculate; besides, 
this family has done enough speculating for one gener- 
ation. 

378 


Be a 


THE DANGER MARK 








* Dear, you ask about myself. I am not one bit 
worried, sad, or apprehensive. I am better, Duane. 
Do you understand? All this has developed a set of 
steadier nerves in me than I have had since I was a 
child. 

* A new and curiously keen enjoyment has been 
slowly growing in me—a happiness in physical and vio- 
lent effort. I’ve a devilish horse to ride; and I love 
it! Tve climbed all over the Gilded Dome and Lynx 
Peak after the biggest and shaggiest boar you ever 
saw. Oh, Duane! I came on him just at the edge of 
evening, and he winded me and went thundering down 
the Westgate ravine, and I fired too quickly. 

* But I’m after him almost every day with old 
Miller, and my arms and legs are getting so strong, 
and my flesh so firm, and actually I’m becoming almost 
plump in the face! Don’t you care for that kind of a 
girl? 

“Dear, do you think I’ve passed the danger mark? 
Tell me honestly—not what you want to think, but what 
you do believe. I don’t know whether I have passed it 
yet. I feel, somehow, whichever side of it I am on, that 
the danger mark is not very far away from me. I’ve 
got to get farther away. The house in town is open. 
Mrs. Farren, Hilda, and Nellie are there if we run 
into town. 

“ Kathleen is so happy for me. I’ve told her about 
the red cross. She is too sweet to Scott; she seems to 
think he really grieves deeply over the loss of his pri- 
vate fortune. What a dear she is! She is willing to 
marry him now; but Scott strikes attitudes and de- 
clares she shall have a man whose name stands for an 
achievement—meaning, of course, the Seagrave process 
for the extermination of the Rose-beetle. 

879 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Duane, I am quite unaccountably happy to- 
day. Nothing seems to threaten. But don’t stop lov- 
ing me.” 

Followed three letters less confident, and another 
very pitiful—a frightened letter asking him to come if 
he could. But his father’s condition forbade it and 
he dared not. 

Then another letter came, desperate, almost inco- 
herent, yet still bearing the red cross faintly traced. 
And on the heels of it a telegram: 


* Could you stand by me until this is over? I am 
afraid of to-night. Am on my way to town with my 
maid, very ill. I know you cannot leave your father 
except at night. I will telephone you from the house. 

66 G. Ss,” 


On the train a dispatch was handed her: 


“JT will be at your house as soon as my father is 
asleep. Don’t worry. Duane.” 


Hour after hour she sat motionless beside the car- 
window, quiet, pale, dark eyes remote; trees, houses, 
trains, telegraph-poles streamed past in one gray, un- 
ending blur; rain which at first had only streaked the 
grimy window-glass with cinders, became sleet, then 
snow, clotting the dripping panes. 

At last, far away under a heavy sky, the vast mis- 
shapen landmarks of New York loomed up. gray 
through the falling snow; the train roared over the 
Harlem, halted at 125th Street, rolled on into the black 
tunnel, faster, faster, slower, then more slowly, and 
stopped. All sounds ceased at the same moment; si- 

380 


THE DANGER MARK 








lence surrounded her, dreary as the ominous silence 
within. 

Dunn met her with a brougham; Fifth Avenue was 
slippery with filthy, melting slush; yet, somehow, into 
her mind came the memory of her return from her first 
opera—the white avenue at midnight, the carriage, 
lamps lighted, speeding through the driving snow. 
Yesterday, the quiet, untainted whiteness of childhood; 
to-day, trouble and stress and stained snow melting 
into mud—so far behind her lay innocence and peace 
on the long road she had travelled! So far had she 
already journeyed—toward what? 

She pressed her lips more tightly together and 
buried her chin in her sable muff. Beside her, her maid 
sat shivering and stifling yawn after yawn and think- 
ing of dinner and creature comforts, and of Dunn, the 
footman, whom she did ardently admire. 

The big red brick house among its naked trees 
seemed sad and deserted as the brougham flashed into 
the drive and stopped, the horses stamping and pawing 
the frozen gravel. Geraldine had never before been 
away from home so long, and now as she decended from 
the carriage and looked vaguely about her it seemed as 
though she had, somehow, become very, very young 
again—that it was her child-self that entered under the 
porte-cochére after the prescribed drive that always 
ended outdoor exercise in the early winter evenings; 
and she half expected to see old Howker in the hall, and 
Margaret trotting up to undo her furs and leggings— 
half expected to hear Kathleen’s gay greeting, to see 
her on the stairs, so young, so sweetly radiant, her 
arms outstretched in welcome to her children who had 
been away scarcely a full hour. 

“Td like to have a fire in my bedroom and in the 

381 


THE DANGER MARK 








upper library,” she said to Hilda, who had smilingly 
opened the door for her. “I'll dine in the upper li- 
brary, too. When Mr. Mallett arrives, you need not 
come up to announce him. Ask him to find me in the 
library.” 

To Mrs. Farren she said: “ Nobody need sit up. 
When Mr. Mallett leaves, I will put the chains on and 
bolt everything.” 

She was destined not to keep this promise. 


Bathed, her hair brushed and dressed, she suffered 
her maid to hook her into a gown which she could put 
off again unassisted—one of those gowns that excite 
masculine admiration by reason of its apparent inex~ 
pensiveness and extreme simplicity. It was horribly 
expensive, of course—white, and cut out in a circle 
around her neck like a young girl’s gown; and it suited 
Geraldine’s slender, rounded throat and her dainty head 
with its heavy, loosely drawn masses of brown hair, 
just shadowing cheeks and brow. 

When the last hook was looped she dismissed her 
maid for the night; Hilda served her at dinner, but she 
ate little, and the waitress bore away the last of the 
almost untouched food, leaving her young mistress 
seated before the fire and looking steadily into it. 

The fire was a good one; the fuel oak and ash and 
beech. The flames made a silky, rustling sound; now 
and then a coal fell with a softly agreeable crash and a 
swarm of golden sparks whirled up the chimney, snap- 
ping, scintillating, like day fireworks. 

Geraldine sat very still, her mouth resting on her 
white wrist, and when she lifted her head the marks of 
her teeth showed on the skin. Then the other hand, 
clutching the arm of her chair, fell to her side cramped 

382 


THE DANGER MARK 








and quivering; she stood up, looked at the fire, pressed 
both palms across her eyes, turned and began to pace 
the room. 

To and fro she moved, slowly, quickly, as the crav- 
ing for motion ebbed or increased. At times she made 
unconscious movements with her arms, now flinging 
them wide, now flexing the muscles, clenching the hands ; 
but always the arms fell helpless, hopeless ; the slim, des- 
perate fingers relaxed; and she moved on again, to and 
fro, up and down, turning her gaze toward the clock 
each time she passed it. 

In her eyes there seemed to be growing a dreadful 
sort of beauty; there was fire in them, the luminous 
brightness of the tortured. On both cheeks a splendid 
colour glowed and waned; the slightly drawn lips were 
vivid. 

But this—all of it changed as the slow minutes 
dragged their course; into the brown eyes crept the 
first frosty glimmer of desperation; colour faded from 
the face, leaving it snowy white; the fulness of the lips 
vanished, the chin seemed to grow pointed, and under 
the eyes bluish shadows deepened. It promised to go 
hard with her that night; it was already going very 
badly. She knew it, and digging her nails into her 
delicate palms, set her teeth together and drew a deep, 
unsteady breath. 

She had looked at the clock four times, and the 
hands seemed to have moved no more than a minute’s 
space across the dial; and once more she turned to pace 
the floor. 

Her lips had lost almost all their colour now; they 
moved, muttering tremulous incoherences; the outline 
of every feature grew finer, sharper, more spiritual, but 
dreadfully white. 

26 383 


THE DANGER MARK 








Later she found herself on her knees beside the 
couch, face buried in the cushions, her small teeth 
marking her wrist again—heard herself crying out for 
somebody to help her—yet her lips had uttered no 
sound; it was only her soul in its agony, while the 
youthful, curved body and rigid limbs burnt steadily in 
hell’s own flames. 

Again she raised her head and lifted her white face 
toward the clock. Only a minute had crept by, and 
she turned, twisting her interlocked hands, dry-eyed, 
dry lips parted, and stared about her. Half stupefied 
with pain, stunned, dismayed by the million tiny voices 
of temptation assailing her, dinning in her senses, she 
reeled where she knelt, fell forward, laid her slender 
length across the hearth-rug, and set her teeth in her 
wrist again, choking back the cry of terror and desola- 
tion. 

And there her senses tricked her—or she may have 
lost consciousness—for it seemed that the next mo- 
ment she was on the stairs, moving stealthily—where? 
God and her tormented body seemed to’ know, for she 
caught herself halfway down the stairs, cried out on 
her Maker for strength, stood swaying, breathless, 
quivering in the agony of it—and dragged herself 
back and up the stairs once more, step by step, to the 
landing. 

For a moment she stood there, shaking, ghastly, 
staring down into the regions below, where relief lay 
within her reach. And she dared not even stare too 
long; she turned blindly, arms outstretched, feeling 
her way back. Every sense within her seemed for the 
moment deadened; sounds scarcely penetrated, had no 
meaning ; she heard the grille clash, steps on the stair ; 
she was trying to get back to the library, paused to 

384 


THE DANGER MARK 








rest at the door, was caught in two strong arms, drawn 
into them: 

“Duane,” she whispered. 

“Darling!”—and as he saw her face—* My 
God!” 

“‘ Mine, too, Duane. Don’t be afraid; I’m holding 
firm, so far. But I am very, very ill. Could you help 
me a little? ” 

“Yes, child !—yes, little Geraldine—my little, little 
gir|——” ‘ q 

“Can you stay near me? ” 

“Yes! Good God, yes!” 

* How long? ” 

* As long as you want me.” 

“Then I can get through with this. I think to- 
night decides... . If you will remain with me—for 
a while——” 

** Yes, dear.” 

He drew a chair to the fire; she sank into it; he 
seated himself beside her and she clung to his hand with 
both of hers. 

His eyes fell upon her wrist where the marks of her 
teeth were imprinted; he felt her body trembling, saw 
the tragedy in her eyes, rose, lifted her as though she 
were a child, and seating himself, drew her close 
against his breast. 

The night was a hard one; sometimes in an access 
of pain she struggled for freedom, and all his strength 
was needed to keep her where she lay. At times, too, 
her senses seemed clouded, and she talked incoherently ; 
sometimes she begged for relief, shamelessly craved it ; 
sometimes she used all her force, and, almost beside 
herself, defied him, threatened him, turned on him in- 
furiated ; but his strength held her locked in a vicelike 

385 


THE DANGER MARK 








embrace, and, toward morning, she suddenly relaxed— 
crumpled up like a white flower in his arms. For 
a while her tears fell hot and fast; then utter prostra- 
tion left her limp, without movement, even without a 
tremor, a dead weight in his arms. 

And, for the second time in his life, lifting her, he 
bore her to her room, laid her among the pillows, 
slipped off her shoes, and, bending above her, listened. 

She slept profoundly—but it was not the stupor 
that had chained her limbs that other time when he had 
brought her here. 

He went into the library and waited for an hour. 
Then, very quietly, he descended the stairs and let him- 
self out into the bitter darkness of a November morn- 


ing. 


About noon next day the Seagraves’ brougham 
drew up before the Mallett house and Geraldine, in 
furs, stepped out and crossed the sidewalk with that 
swift, lithe grace of hers. The servant opened the 
grille; she entered .and stood by the great marble- 
topped hall-table until Duane came down. Then she 
gave him her gloved hands, looking him straight in the 
eyes. 

She was still pale but self-possessed, and wonder- 
fully pretty in her fur jacket and toque; and as she 
stood there, both hands dropped into his, that name- 
less and winning grace which had always fascinated 
him held him now—something about her that recalled 
the child in the garden with clustering hair and slim, 
straight limbs. 

* You look about fifteen,” he said, “ you beautiful, 
slender thing! Did you come to see my father? ” 

* Yes—and your father’s son.” 

386 


¢¢ SUIIB sty Ul JOMOP o}IYM ®B oT] dn peyduimnag > 








THE DANGER MARK 








“ Me? 99 

“Ts there another like you, Duane—in all) the 
world? ” 

* Plenty 

“Hush! . . . When did you go last night? ” 

“When you left me for the land of dreams, little 
lady.” 

“So you—carried me.” 

He smiled, and a bright flush covered her cheeks. 

“ That makes twice,” she said steadily. 

* Yes, dear.” 

* There will be no third time.” 

* Not unless I have a sleepy wife who nods before 
the fire like a drowsy child.” 

* Do you want that kind? ” 

*T want the kind that lay close in my arms before 
the fire last night.” 

“Do you? I think I should like the sort of hus- 
band who is strong enough to cradle that sort of a 
child. . . . Could your mother and Naida receive me? 
Could I see your father? ” 

“Yes. When are you going back to Roya- 
Neh? ” 

* 'To-night.” 

He said quietly: “Is it safe? ” 

“For me to go? Yes—yes, my darling ”’—her 
hands tightened over his—‘ yes, it is safe—because 
you made it so. If you knew—if you knew what is in 
my heart to—to give you, Aisles I wall be to you some 
day, dearest of men 

He said unsteadily: “ Come upstairs. . . . My fa- 
ther is very feeble, but quite cheerful. Do you under- 
stand that—that his mind—his memory, rather, is a 
little impaired? ” 








387 


THE DANGER MARK 








She lifted his hands and laid her soft lips against 
them : 

“ Will you take me to him, Duane?” 

Colonel Mallett lay in the pale November sunlight, 
very still, his hands folded on his breast. And at first 
she did not know him in this ghost of the tall, well- 
built, gray-haired man with ruddy colour and firm, clear 
skin. 

As she bent over, he opened his eyes, smiled, pro- 
nounced her name, still smiling and keeping his sunken 
eyes on her. They were filmy and bluish, like the eyes 
of the very old; and the hand she lifted and held was 
the stricken hand of age—inert, lifeless, without weight. 

She said that she was so happy to know he was re- 
covering; she told him how proud everybody was of 
Duane, what exceptional talent he possessed, how won- 
derfully he had painted Miller’s children. She spoke 
to him of Roya-Neh, and how interesting it had become 
to them all, told him about the wild boar and her own 
mishaps with the guileful pig. 

He smiled, watching her at times; but his wist- 
ful gaze always reverted to his son, who sat at the foot 
of the couch, chin balanced between his long, lean 
hands. 

“ You won’t go, will you? ” he whispered. 

“ Where, father? ” 

66 Away.” 

** No, of course not.” 

“IT mean with—Geraldine,” he said feebly. 

“Tf I did, father, we’d take you with us,” he 
laughed. 

“Tt is too far, my son. ... You and Geraldine 
are going too far for me to follow. . . . Wait a little 
while.” 

388 


THE DANGER MARK 








Geraldine, blushing, bent down swiftly, her lips 
brushing the sick man’s wasted face: 

“TI would not care for him if I could take him from 

you.” 
“Your father and I were old friends. Your grand- 
father was a very fine gentleman. . . . Iam glad... . 
I am a little tired—a little confused. Is your grand- 
father here with you? I would like to see him.” 

She said, after a moment, in a low voice: “ He did 
not come with me to-day.” 

“Give him my regards and compliments. And say 
to him that it would be a pleasure to see him. I am 
not very well; has he heard of my indisposition? ” 

“T think he—has.” 

* Then he will come,” said Colonel Mallett feebly. 
“Duane, you are not going, are you? I am a little 
tired. I think I could sleep if you would lower the 
shade and ask your mother to sit by me. . . . But you 
won’t go until I am asleep, will you? ” 

“No,” he said gently, as his mother and Naida en- 
tered and Geraldine rose to greet them, shocked at the 
change in Mrs. Mallett. 

She and Naida went away together; later Duane 
joined them in the library, saying that his father was 
asleep, holding fast to his wife’s hand. 

Geraldine, her arm around Naida’s waist, had been 
looking at one of Duane’s pictures—the only one of his 
in the house—merely a stretch of silvery marsh and a 
gray, wet sky beyond. 

“ Father liked it,” he said; “ that’s why it’s here, 
Geraldine.” 

“You never made one brush-stroke that was com- 
monplace in all your life,” said Geraldine abruptly. 
* Even I can see that.” 

389 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Such praise from a lady!” he exclaimed, laugh- 
ing. Geraldine smiled, too, and Naida’s pallid face 
lightened for a moment. But grief had set its seal on 
the house of Mallett; that was plain everywhere; and 
when Geraldine kissed Naida good-bye and walked to 
the door beside her lover, a passion of tenderness for 
him and his overwhelmed her, and when he put her into 
her brougham she leaned from the lowered window, 
clinging to his hand, careless of who might see them. 

“Can I help in any way?” she whispered. “I told 
you that my fortune is still my own—most of it “ 

* Dear, wait! ” 

There was a strange look in his eyes; she said no 
more with her lips, but her eyes told him all. Then he 
stepped back, directing Dunn to drive his mistress to 
the Commonwealth Club, where she was to lunch with 
Sylvia Quest, whom she had met that morning in the 
blockade at Forty-second Street, and who had invited 
her from her motor across the crupper of a traffic- 
policeman’s horse. 





CHAPTER XVIII 
BON CHIEN 


Tue chronology of that last dark and bitter week 
in November might have been written “ necrology.” 

On Monday Colonel Mallett died about sundown; on 
Wednesday the Hon. John D. Ellis, while examining an 
automatic revolver in his bath-room, met with one of 
those unfortunate and fatal accidents which sometimes 
happen in times of great financial depression. 

Thursday Amos Flack carelessly disappeared, leav- 
ing no address; and on the last day of the week Eman- 
uel Klawber politely excused himself to a group of very 
solemn gentlemen who had been assisting him in the 
well-known and popular game of * Hunt the Books ” 
and, stepping outside the door of the director’s office, 
carefully destroyed what little life had not already been 
scared out of his three-hundred-pound person. 

It had been raining all day; Dysart had not felt 
very well, and Klawber’s unpleasant performance made 
him ill. He stood in the rain watching the ambulance ar- 
riving at a gallop, then, sickened, turned away through 
the dark and dripping crowds, crossed the street, and, - 
lowering his head against the storm, drove both gloved 
hands deep into the pockets of his fashionably cut rain- 
coat, and started for home. 

It mattered nothing to him that several hard-work- 
ing newspaper men might desire to secure his version 
of Mr. Klawber’s taking off, or of his explanation for 

391 


THE DANGER MARK 








it or his sensations concerning it. It mattered nothing 
to him that the afternoon papers reported the arrest of 
James Skelton, or that Max Moebus had inadvertently, 
and no doubt in a moment of intense abstraction, taken 
a steamer for Europe and the books of the Shoshone 
Bank. 

These matters, now seemed a great way off—too 
unreal to be of personal moment. He was feeling sick ; 
that occupied his mind. Also the slush on the side- 
walk had wet through his shoes, which probably was 
not good for his cough. 

It was scarcely two in the afternoon, yet there re- 
mained so little daylight that the electricity burned 
in the shops along Fifth Avenue. Through a smutty, 
grayish gloom, rain drove densely; his hat and water- 
proof coat were heavy with it, the bottoms of his 
trousers soaked. 

Passing the Patroons Club it occurred to him that 
hot whiskey might extinguish his cough. The liver- 
ied servants at the door, in the cloak-room—the page 
who took his order, the white-headed butler who had 
always personally served him, and who served him 
now, all hesitated and gazed curiously at him. He 
paid no attention at the time but remembered it after- 
ward. 

For an hour he sat alone in the vast empty room be- 
fore a fire of English cannel coal, taking his hot whis- 
key and lemon in slow, absent-minded gulps. Patches 
of deep colour lay flat under his cheek-bones, his sunken 
abstracted eyes never left the coals. 

The painted gaze of dead Presidents and Governors 
looked down at him from their old-time frames ranged 
in stately ranks along the oaken wainscot. Over the 
mantel the amazing, Hebraic countenance of a moose 

392 


BON CHIEN 








leered at him out of little sly, sardonic little eyes, 
almost bantering in their evil immobility. 

He had presented the trophy to the club after a 
trip somewhere, leaving the impression that he had shot 
it. He seldom looked at it, never at the silver-engraved 
inscription on the walnut shield. 

Strangely enough, now as he sat there, he thought 
of the trophy and looked up at it; and for the first time 
in his life read the inscription. 

It made no visible impression upon him except that 
for a brief moment the small and vivid patches of col- 
_ our in his wasted cheeks faintly tinted the general pal- 
lor. But this died out as soon as it appeared; 
he drank deliberately, set the hot glass on a table at 
his elbow, long, bony fingers still retaining a grip 
upon it. 

And into his unconcentrated thoughts, strangely 
enough, came the memories of little meannesses which he 
had committed—trivial things that he supposed he had 
forgotten long ago; and at first, annoyed, he let mem- 
ory drift. 

But, imperceptibly, from the shallows of these 
little long-forgotten meannesses, memory drifted un- 
controlled into deeper currents; and, disdainful, he 
made no effort to control it; and later, could not. 
And for the first time in his life he took the trouble to 
understand the reason of his unpopularity among men. 
He had cared nothing for them. 

He cared nothing for them now, unless that half 
tolerant, half disdainful companionship of years with 
Delancy Grandcourt could be called caring for a man. 
If their relations ever had been anything more than a 
habit he did not know; on what their friendship had 
ever been founded he could not tell. It had been his 

393 


THE DANGER MARK 








habit to take from Delancy, accept, or help himself. 
He had helped himself to Rosalie Dene; and not long: 
ago he had accepted all that Delancy offered, almost 
convinced at the time that it would disappear in the 
debacle when the Algonquin crumbled into a rubbish 
heap of rotten securities. 

A curious friendship—and the only friend he ever 
had had among men—stupid, inertly at hand, as in- 
evitably to be counted on as some battered toy of child- 
hood which escaped the dust heap so long that custom 
tolerates its occupation of any closet space convenient ; 
and habit, at intervals, picks it up to see what’s left 
of it. 


He had finished his whiskey ; the fire seemed to have 
grown too hot, and he shoved back his chair. But the 
room, too, was becoming close, even stifling. Perspi- 
ration glistened on his forehead; he rose and began to 
wander from room to room, followed always by the 
stealthy glances of servants. 

The sweat on his face had become unpleasantly 
cold; he came back to the fire, endured it for a few 
moments, then, burning and shivering at the same time, 
and preferring the latter sensation, he went out to his 
letter-box and unlocked it. There was only one enve- 
lope there, a letter from the governing board of the 
club requesting his resignation. 

The possibility of such an event had never occurred 
to him; he read the letter again, folded and placed it in 
his pocket, went back to the fire with the idea of burn- 
ing it, took it out, read it again, folded it absently, 
and replaced it in his pocket. 

At that time, except for the dull surprise, the epi- 
sode did not seem to affect him particularly. So many 

394 


BON CHIEN 








things had been accumulating, so many matters had 
been menacing him, that one cloud more among the 
dark, ominous masses gathering made no deeper im- 
pression than slight surprise. 

For a while he stood motionless, hands in his 
trousers’ pockets, head lowered; then, as somebody en- 
tered the farther door, he turned instinctively and 
stepped into a private card room, closing the polished 
mahogany door. The door opened a moment later and 
Delancy Grandcourt walked in. 

“ Hello,” he said briefly. Dysart, by the win- 
dow, looked around at him without any expression 
whatever. 

“* Have you heard about Klawber? ” asked Delancy. 
“ They’re calling the extra.” 

Dysart looked out of the window. “ That’s fast 
work,” he said. 

Grandcourt stood for a while in silence, then seated 
himself, saying: 

** He ought to have lived and tried to make good.” 

** He couldn’t.” : 

“ He ought to have tried. What’s the good of ly- 
ing down that way?” 

*T don’t know. I guess he was tired.” 

“That doesn’t relieve his creditors.” 

“No, but it relieves Klawber.” 

Grandcourt said: “ You always view things from 
that side, don’t you? ” 

* What side? ” 

“That of personal convenience.” 

“Yes. Why not?” 

“T don’t know. Where is it landing you? ” 

“T haven’t gone into that very thoroughly.” 
There was a trace of irritation in Dysart’s voice; he 


895 


THE DANGER MARK 








passed one hand over his forehead; it was icy, and the 
hair on it damp. ‘‘ What the devil do you want of 
me, anyway?” he asked. 

“Nothing. . . . I have never wanted satetine of 
you, have I?” 

Dysart walked the width of the room, then the 
length of it, then came and stood by the table, resting 
on it with one thin hand, in which his damp handker- 
chief was crushed to a wad. 

“What is it you’ve got to say, Delancy? Is it 
about that loan? ” 

“No. Have you heard a word out of me about 
4 di 

“ You’ve been devilish glum. Good God, I don’t 
blame you; I ought not to have touched it; I must 
have been crazy to let you try to help me——” 

“It was my affair. What I choose to do concerns 
myself,” said Grandcourt, his heavy, troubled face 
turning redder. ‘‘ And, Jack, I understand that my 
father is making things disagreeable for you. I’ve 
told him not to; and you mustn’t let it worry you, be- 
cause what I had was my own and what I did with it 
my own business.” 

“ Anyway,” observed Dysart, after a moment’s re- 
flection, “ your family is wealthy.” 

A darker flush stained Grandcourt’s face; and Dy- 
sart’s misinterpretation of his philosophy almost stung 
him into fierce retort; but as his heavy lips unclosed 
in anger, his eyes fell on Dysart’s ravaged face, and he 
sat silent, his personal feelings merged in an ever- 
growing anxiety. 

“Why do you cough like that, Jack? ” he demanded 
after a paroxysm had shaken the other into an arm- 
chair, where he lay sweating and panting: 

396 


BON CHIEN 








“It’s a cold,” Dysart managed to say; “been 
hanging on for a month.” 

“Three months,” said Grandcourt tersely. ‘“ Why 
don’t you take care of it?” 

There was a silence; nothing more was said about 
the cold; and presently Grandcourt drew a letter from 
his pocket and handed it silently to Dysart. It was in 
Rosalie’s handwriting, dated two months before, and 
directed to Dysart at Baltimore. The post-office au- 
thorities had marked it, “No address,” and had 
returned it a few days since to the sender. 

These details Dysart noticed on the envelope and 
the heading of the first page; he glanced over a line or 
two, lowered the letter, and looked questioningly over 
it at Grandcourt: 

** What’s it about?—if you know,” he asked wear- 
ily. ‘I’m not inclined just now to read anything that 
may be unpleasant.” 

Grandcourt said quietly: 

*T have not read the letter, but your wife has told 
me something of what it contains. She wrote and 
mailed it to you weeks ago—before the crash—saying, 
I believe, that adversity was not the time for the settle- 
ment of domestic differences, and that if her private 
fortune could avert disaster, you were to write imme- 
diately to her attorneys.” 

Dysart gazed at him as though stunned; then his 
dull gaze fell once more on the envelope. He examined 
it, went all over it with lack-lustre eyes, laid it aside, 
and finally began to read his wife’s letter—the letter 
that had never reached him because he had used another 
name on the hotel register in Baltimore. 

Grandcourt watched him with painful interest as he 
sat, hunched up, coughing at intervals, and poring over 

397 


THE DANGER MARK 








his wife’s long, angular chirography. There was much 
between the lines to read, but Dysart could never read 
it; much to understand, but he could never under- 
stand it. 

“ Delancy tells me,” she wrote, “that you are 
threatened with very serious difficulties. Once or twice 
you yourself have said as much to me; and my answer 
was that they no longer concerned me. 

“The situation is this: I have, as you know, con- 
sulted counsel with a view to begin proceedings for a 
separation. This has been discontinued—temporarily, 
at any rate—because I have been led to believe by your 
friend, Delancy Grandcourt, that the present is no time 
to add to your perplexities. 

“He has, I may add, induced me to believe other 
things which my better sense rejects; but no woman’s 
logic—which is always half sentiment—could remain 
unshaken by the simple loyalty to you and to me of 
this friend of yours and of mine. And this letter would 
never have been written except, practically, at his dic- 
tation. Kindly refrain from showing it to him as my 
acknowledgment here of his influence in the matter 
would grieve him very deeply. 

** Because he believes that it is still possible for you 
and me to return to civilised relations; he believes that 
I care for you, that, in your own leisurely and super- 
ficial fashion, you still really honour the vows that 
bound you—still in your heart care for me. Let him 
believe it; and if you will, for his sake, let us resume 
the surface semblance of a common life which, until he 
persuaded me, I was determined to abandon. 

“Tt is an effort to write this; I do it for his sake, 
and, in that way, for yours. I don’t think you care 
about me; I don’t think you ever did or ever will. Yet 

398 


BON CHIEN 








you must know how it was with me until I could endure 
my isolation no longer. And I say to you perfectly 
frankly that now I care more for this friend of yours, 
Delancy Grandcourt, than I care for anybody in the 
world. Which is why I write you to offer what I have 
offered, and to say that if my private fortune can carry 
you through the disaster which is so plainly impend- 
ing, please write to my attorneys at once as they have 
all power in the matter.” 

The postscript was dated ten days later, from 
Dysart’s own house: 

* Receiving no reply, I telephoned you, but Bran- 
don says you are away from the city on business and 
have left no address, so I took the liberty of entering 
your house, selecting this letter from the mass of nine 
days’ old mail awaiting you, and shall direct it to you 
at the hotel in Baltimore where Bunny Gray says that 
somebody has seen you several times with a Mr. 
Skelton.” 

As Dysart read, he wiped the chilly perspiration 
from his haggard face at intervals, never taking his 
eyes from the written pages. And at last he finished 
his wife’s letter, sat very silent, save when the cough 
shook him, the sheets of the letter lying loosely in his 
nerveless hand. 

It was becoming plain to him, in a confused sort 
of way, that something beside bad luck and his own 
miscalculations, was working against him—had _ been 
stealthily moving toward his undoing for a year, now; 
something occult, sinister, inexorable. 

He thought of the register at the hotel in Balti- 
more, of the name he lived under there during that in- 
terval in his career for which he had accounted to no- 
body, and never would account—on earth. And into 


399 


THE DANGER MARK 








his memory rose the pale face of Sylvia Quest; and he 
looked down at the letter trembling in his hand and 
thought of her and of his wife and of the Algonquin 
Trust Company, and of the chances of salvation he had 
missed. 

Grandcourt sat looking at him; there was some- 
thing in his gaze almost doglike: 

“* Have you read it? ” he asked. 

Dysart glanced up abstractedly: “ Yes.” 

“Ts it what I told you?” 

“ Yes—substantially.” He dried his damp face; 
“it comes rather late, you know.” 

“Not too late,” said the other, mistaking him; 
“ your wife is still ready to meet you half-way, Jack.” 

“ Oh—that? I meant the Algonquin matter—” He 
checked himself, seeing for the first time in his life 
contempt distorting Grandcourt’s heavy face. 

“Man! Man!” he said thickly, “is there nothing 
in that letter for you except money offered? ” 

“What do you mean?” 

“TI say, is there nothing in that message to you 
that touches the manhood in you? ” 

“You don’t know what is in it,” said Dysart list- 
lessly. Even Grandcourt’s contempt no longer pro- 
duced any sensation; he looked at the letter, tore it 
into long strips, crumpled them and stood up with a 
physical effort: 

“T’m going to burn hie Have you anything else 
to say?” 

“Yes. Good God, Jack, don’t you care for your 
wife? Can’t you?” 

ee No.” 

ee Why? 9 

“JT don’t know.” His tone became querulous. 

400 


BON CHIEN 








“* How can a man tell why he becomes indifferent to a 
woman? I don’t know. I never did-know. I can’t 
explain it. But he does.” 

Grandcourt stared at him. And suddenly the latent 
fear that had been torturing him for the last two weeks 
died out utterly: this man would never need watching 
to prevent any attempt at self-destruction; this man 
before him was not of that caste. His self-centred ab- 
sorption was of a totally different nature. 

He said, very red in the face, but with a voice well 
modulated and even: 

‘J think I’ve made a good deal of an ass of myself. 
I think I may safely be cast for that rédle in future. 
Most people, including yourself, think [’m fitted for 
it; and most people, and yourself, are right. And Ill 
admit it now by taking the liberty of asking you whom 
you were with in Baltimore.” 

“None of your damned business!” said Dysart, 
wheeling short on him. 

* Perhaps not. I did not believe it at the time, but 
I do now. . . . And her brother is after you with a 
gun.” 

* What do you mean? ” 

“That you’d better get out of tave unless you 
want an uglier scandal on your hands.” 

Dysart stood breathing fast and with such effort 
that his chest moved visibly as the lungs strained un- 
der the tension: 

* Do you mean to say that drunken whelp suspects 
anything so—so wildly absurd. 

“Which drunken whelp? There are several in 
town? ” 

Dysart glared at him, careless of what he might 
now believe. 





401 


THE DANGER MARK 








“I take it you mean that little cur, Quest.” 

* Yes, I happen to mean Quest.” 

Dysart gave an ugly laugh and turned short on his | 
heel: 

‘The whole damn lot of you make me sick,” he said. 
** So does this club.” 

A servant held his rain-coat and handed him his hat ; 
he shook his bent shoulders, stifled a cough, and went 
out into the rain. 

In his own home his little old father, carefully be- 
wigged, painted, cleaned and dressed, came trotting into 
the lamp-lit living-room fresh from the ministrations 
of his valet. 

“There you are, Jack !—te-he! Oh, yes, there you 
are, you young dog!—all a-drip with rain for the love 
o’ the ladies, eh, Jack? Te-he—one’s been here to 
see you—a little white doll in chinchillas, and scared 
to death at my civilities—as though she knew the Dy- 
sarts—te-he! Oh, yes, the Dysarts, Jack. But it was 
monstrous imprudent, my son—and a good thing that 
your wife remains at Lenox so late this season—te-he! 
A lucky thing, you young dog! And what the devil do 
you mean by it—eh? What d’ye mean, I say!” 

Leering, peering, his painted lips pursed up, the 
little old man seated himself, gazing with dim, restless 
eyes at the shadowy blur which represented to him his 
handsome son—a Dysart all through, elegant, debo- 
nair, resistless, and, married or single, fatal to feminine 
peace of mind. Generations ago Dysarts had been 
shot very conventionally at ten paces owing to this 
same debonair resistlessness; Dysarts had slipped into 
and out of all sorts of unsavoury messes on account of 
this fatal family failing; some had been neatly winged, 
some thrust through; some, in a more sordid age, per- 

402 


BON CHIEN 








mitted counsel of ability to explain to a jury how guilt- 
less a careless gentleman could be under the most un- 
fortunate and extenuating appearances. 

The son stood in his wet clothes, haggard, lined, 
ghastly in contrast to the startling red of his lips, 
looking at his smirking father: then he leaned over 
and touched a bell. 

“Who was it who called on Mrs. Dysart?” he 
asked, as a servant appeared. 

** Miss Quest, sir,” said the man, accepting the cue 
with stolid philosophy. 

* Did Miss Quest leave any message? ” 

* Yes, sir: Miss Quest desired Mrs. Dysart to tele- 
phone her on Mrs. Dysart’s return from—the coun- 
try, sir—it being a matter of very great importance.” 

“Thank you.” 

* Thank you, sir.” 

The servant withdrew; the son stood gazing into 
the hallway. Behind him his father mumbled and mut- 
tered and chuckled to himself in his easy-chair by the 
fire! 

*Te-he! They are all alike, the Dysarts—oh, yes, 
all alike! And now it’s that young dog—Jack !—+te-he! 
—yes, it’s Jack, now! But he’s a good son, my boy 
Jack; he’s a good son to me and he’s all Dysart, all 
Dysart; bon chien chasse de race!—te-he! Oui, ma 
fois!—bon chien chasse de race.” 


CHAPTER XIX 
QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 


By the first of January it became plain that there 
was not very much left of Colonel Mallett’s fortune, 
less of his business reputation, and even less of his wife’s 
health. But she was now able to travel, and toward 
the middle of the month she sailed with Naida and one 
maid for Naples, leaving her son to gather up and 
straighten out what little of value still remained in the 
wreckage of the house of Mallett. What he cared most 
about was to straighten out his father’s. personal rep- 
utation; and this was possible only as far as it con- 
cerned Colonel Mallett’s individual honesty. But the 
rehabilitation was accomplished at the expense of his 
father’s reputation for business intelligence; and New 
York never really excuses such things. 

Not much remained after the amounts due every 
creditor had been checked up and provided for; and it 
took practically all Duane had, almost all Naida had, 
and also the sacrifice of the town house and country villa 
to properly protect those who had suffered. Part of 
his mother’s estate remained intact, enough to permit 
her and her daughter to live by practising those in- 
consequential economies, the necessity for which fills 
Europe with about the only sort of Americans culti- 
vated foreigners can tolerate, and for which predatory 
Europeans have no use whatever. 

As for Duane, matters were now in such shape that 

404 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








he found it possible to rent a studio with adjoining bath 
and bedroom—an installation which, at one time, was 
more than he expected to be able to afford. 

The loss of that luxury, which custom had made a 
necessity, filled his daily life full of triflmg annoyances 
and surprises which were often unpleasant and some- 
times humorous; but the new and arid order of things 
kept him so busy that he had little time for the apathy, 
bitterness, or self-commiseration which, in linked se- 
quence, usually follow sudden disaster. 

Sooner or later it was inevitable that he must feel 
more keenly the death of a father who, until in the 
shadow of impending disaster, had never offered him a 
very close intimacy. Their relations had been merely 
warm and pleasant—an easy camaraderie between 
friends—neither questioned the other’s rights to 
reticence and privacy. Their mutual silence concern- 
ing business pursuits was instinctive; neither father 
nor son understood the other’s affairs, nor were they in- 
terested except in the success of a good comrade. 

It was inevitable that, in years to come, the realisa- 
tion of his loss would become keener and deeper; but 
now, in the reaction from shock, and in the anxiety and 
stress and dire necessity for activity, only the surface 
sorrow was understood—the pity of it, the distressing 
circumstances surrounding the death of a good father, 
a good friend, and a personally upright man. 

The funeral was private; only the immediate family 
attended. Duane had written to Geraldine, Kath- 
leen, and Scott not to come, and he had also asked if 
he might not go to them when the chance arrived. 

And now the chance had come at last, in the dead of 
winter ; but the prospect of escape to Geraldine bright- 
ened the whole world for him and gilded the snowy 

405 


THE DANGER MARK 








streets of the city with that magic radiance no flaming 
planet ever cast. 

He had already shipped a crate of canvases to 
Roya-Neh; his trunk had gone, and now, checking with 
an amused shrug a natural impulse to hail a cab, he 
swung his suit-case and himself aboard a car, bound 
for the Patroons Club, where he meant to lunch before 
taking the train for Roya-Neh. 

He had not been to the club since the catastrophe 
and his father’s death, and he was very serious and 
sombre and slightly embarrassed when he entered. 

} A servant took his coat and suit-case with marked 

but subdued respect. Men whom he knew and some men 
'whom he scarcely knew at all made it a point to speak 
to him or bow to him with a cordiality too pointed not 
to affect him, because in it he recognised the accept- 
ance of what he had fought for—the verdict that pub- 
licly exonerated his father from anything worse than a 
bad but honest mistake. 

For a second or two he stood in the great marble 
rotunda looking around him. In that club familiar 
figures were lacking—men whose social and financial po- 
sition only a few months before seemed impregnable, men 
who had gone down in ruin, one or two who had perished 
by their own hand, several whose physical and financial 
stamina had been shattered at the same terrible moment. 
Some were ill, some dead, some had resigned, others had 
been forced to write their resignations—such men as 
Dysart for example, and James Skelton, now in prison, 
unable to furnish bail. 

But the Patroons was a club of men above the 
average; a number among them even belonged to the 
Pyramid; and the financial disasters of that summer 
and winter had spared no club in the five boroughs 

406 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








and no membership list had been immune from the sin- 
ister consequences of a crash that had resounded from 
ocean to ocean and had set humble and great scurrymg 
to cover in every Bourse of the civilised world. 


As he entered the dining-room and passed to his 
usual table, he caught sight of Delancy Grandcourt 
lunching alone at the table directly behind him. 

* Hello, Delancy,” he said; “ shall we join forces? ” 

“Td be glad to; it’s very kind of you, Duane,” re- 
plied Grandcourt, showing his pleasure at the proposal 
in the direct honesty of his response. Few men con- 
sidered it worth while to cultivate Grandcourt. To 
lunch with him was a bore; a téte-a-téte with him as- 
sumed the proportions of a visitation; his slowness and 
stupidity had become proverbial in that club; and yet 
almost the only foundation for it had been Dysart’s 
attitude toward him; and men’s estimate of him was 
the more illogical because few men really cared for Dy- 
sart’s opinions. But Dysart had introduced him, elected - 
him, and somehow had contrived to make the public 
accept his half-sneering measure of Grandcourt as 
Grandcourt’s true stature. And the man, being shy, 
reticent, slow to anger, slower still to take his own 
part, was tolerated and good-humouredly avoided 
when decently possible. So much for the average man’s 
judgment of an average man. 

Seated opposite to Duane, Grandcourt expressed 
his pleasure at seeing him with a simplicity that 
touched the other. Then, in perfectly good taste, but 
with great diffidence, he spoke of Duane’s bereavement. 

For a little while they asked and answered those 
amiably formal questions convention requires under 
similar circumstances; then Duane spoke of Dysart 

27 407 


THE DANGER MARK 








gravely, because new rumours were rife concerning 
him, even a veiled hint of possible indictment and 
arrest. 

“J hope not,” said Grandcourt, his heavy features 
becoming troubled; “ he is a broken man, and no court 
and jury can punish him more severely than he has 
been punished. Nor do I know what they could get 
out of him. He has nothing left; everything he pos- 
sessed has been turned over. He sits all day in a house 
that is no longer his, doing nothing, hoping nothing, 
hearing nothing, except the childish babble of his old 
father or the voices from the hall below, where his ser- 
vants are fighting off reporters and cranks and people 
with grievances. Qh, I tell you, Duane, it’s pitiable, all 
right!” 

“There was a rumour yesterday of his suicide,” 
said Duane in a low voice. ‘I did not credit it.” 

Grandcourt shook his head: “ He never would do 
that. He totally lacks whatever you call it—coward- 
ice or courage—to do that. It is not like Dysart; it is 
not in him to do it. He never will, never could. I 
know him, Duane.” 

Duane nodded. 

Grandcourt spoke again: “ He cares for few things; 
life is one of them. His father, his social position, his 
harmless—success with women—” Grandcourt hesi- 
tated, caught Duane’s eye. Both men’s features be- 
came expressionless, 

Duane said: “I had an exceedingly nice note from 
Rosalie the other day. She has bought one of those 
double-deck apartments—but I fancy you know about 
ihe 

“Yes,” said Grandcourt, turning red. ‘ She was 
good enough to ask my opinion.” He added with a 

408 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








laugh: “I shouldn’t think anybody would want my 
opinion after the way I’ve smashed my own affairs.” 

Duane smiled, too. “I’ve heard,” he said, “ that 
yours was the decentest smash of the season. What is 
that scriptural business about—about a man who lays 
down his fortune for a friend? ” 

“ His life,” corrected Grandcourt, very red, “ but 
please don’t confound what I did with anything of 
importance to anybody.” He lighted a cigar from 
the burning match offered by Duane, very much em- 
barrassed for a moment, then suddenly brightened 
up: 

“T’m in business now,” he observed, with a glance 
at the other, partly timid, partly of pride. “My 
father was thoroughly disgusted with me—and nobody 
blames him—so he bought me a seat and, Duane, do 
you know that I am doing rather well, considering that 
nobody is doing anything at all.” 

Duane laughed heartily, but his mirth did not hurt 
Grandcourt, who sat smiling and enjoying his cigar, 
and looking with confidence into a face that was so 
frankly and unusually friendly. 

“You know I always admired you, Duane—even in 
the days when you never bothered your head about 
me,” he added naively. “ Do you remember at school 
the caricature you drew of me—all hands and feet and 
face, and absolutely no body? I’ve got that yet; and 
I’m very proud to have it when I hear people speak 
of your artistic success. Some day, if I ever have any 
money again, I’ll ask you to paint a better portrait of 
me, if you have time.” 

They laughed again over this mild pleasantry; a 
cordial understanding was developing between them, 
which meant much to Grandcourt, for he was a lonely 


409 


THE DANGER MARK 








man and his shyness had always deprived him of what 
he most cared for—what really might have been his 
only resource—the friendship of other men. 

For some time, while they were talking, Duane had 
noticed out of the corner of his eye another man at a 
neighbouring table—a thin, pop-eyed, hollow-chested, 
unhealthy young fellow, who, at intervals, stared in- 
solently at Grandcourt, and once or twice contrived to 
knock over his glass of whiskey while reaching unstead- 
ily for a fresh cigarette. ge 

The man was Stuyvesant Quest, drunk as usual, 
and evidently in an unpleasant mood. 

Grandcourt’s back was toward him; Duane paid 
him no particular attention, though at moments he no- 
ticed him scowling in their direction and seemed to hear 
him fussing and muttering over his whiskey and soda, 
which, with cigarettes, comprised his luncheon. 

“T wish I were going up to Roya-Neh with you,” 
repeated Grandcourt. “I had a bully time up there— 
everybody was unusually nice to me, and I had a fine 
time.” 

* T know they’ll ask you up whenever you can get 
away,” said Duane. “Geraldine Seagrave likes you 
immensely.” 

* Does she? ” exclaimed Grandcourt, blushing. “ I’d 
rather believe that than almost anything! She was 
very, very kind to me, I can tell you; and Lord knows 
why, because I’ve nothing intellectual to offer anybody, 
and I certainly am not pretty!” 

Duane, very much amused, looked at his watch. 

** When does your train leave? ” asked Grandcourt. 

“ve an hour yet.” 

“Come up to my room and smoke. I’ve better 
whiskey than we dispense down here. I’m living at the 

410 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS. 








club, you know. They haven’t yet got over my fiasco 
at home and I can’t stand their joshing.” 

Neither of the men noticed that a third man fol- 
lowed them, stumbling up the stairs as they took the 
elevator. Duane was seated in an easy chair by the 
fire, Grandcourt in another, the decanter stood on a 
low table between them, when, without formality, the 
door opened and young Quest appeared on the thresh- 
old, white, self-assertive, and aggressively at his ease: 

“Tf you fellows don’t mind, I’ll butt in a moment,” 
he said. ‘How are you, Mallett? How are you?” 
giving Grandcourt an impertinent look; and added: 
**Do you, by any chance, expect your friend Dysart 
in here this afternoon? ” 

“ Dysart is no longer a member of this club,” said 
Grandcourt quietly. “Ive told you that a dozen 
times.” 

“All right, P’Il ask you two dozen times more, if 
I choose,” retorted Quest. “Why not?” And he 
gave him an ugly stare. 

The man was just drunk enough to be quarrelsome. 
Duane paid him no further attention; Grandcourt 
asked him very civilly if he could do anything for him. 

“Sure,” sneered Quest. “ You can tell Dysart 
that if I ever come across him I'll shoot him on sight! 
Tell him that and be damned! ” 

“ T’ve already told him that,” said Grandcourt with 
a shrug of contempt. 

The weak, vicious face of the other reddened: 

“What do you mean by taking that tone with me? ” 
he demanded loudly. “Do you think I won’t make 
good?” He fumbled around in his clothing for a mo- 
ment and presently jerked a pistol free—one of the 
automatic kind with rubber butt and blued barrel. 

411 


THE DANGER MARK 








* Unless you are drunker than I’ve ever seen you,” 
said Grandcourt, “ you'll put up that pistol before I 
do.” 

Quest cursed him steadily for a minute: “ Do you 
think I haven’t got the nerve to use it when m’ honour’s 
*volved? I tell you,” he said thickly, “ when m’ hon- 
our’s ’volved 4 

“You get drunk, don’t you?” observed Duane. 
*“* What a pitiful pup you are, anyway. Go to bed.” 

Quest stood swaying slightly on his heels and con- 
sidering Duane with the inquiring solemnity of one 
who is in process of grasping and digesting an abstruse 
proposition. 

** B-bed? ” he repeated; “ me? ” 

“Certainly. A member of this club disgracefully 
drunk in the afternoon will certainly hear from the 
governing board unless he keeps out of sight until he’s 
sane again.” 

“ Thank you,” said Quest with owlish condescension ; 
“I’m indebted to you for calling ’tention to m-matters 
which ’volye honour of m’ own club and <4 

His voice rambled off into a mutter; he sat or rather 
fell into an armchair and lay there twitching and mum- 
bling to himself and inspecting his automatic pistol 
with prominent watery eyes. 

“You'd better leave that squirt-gun with me,” said 
Grandcourt. 

Quest refused with an oath, and, leaning forward 
and hammering the padded chair-arm with his unhealthy 
looking fist, he broke out into a violent arraignment of 
Dysart: 

._ “Damn him!” he yelled, “I’ve written him, I’ve 
asked for an explanation, I’ve ’m-manded +’ know why 
his name’s coupled with my sister’s " 

412 











QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








Duane leaned over, slammed the door, and turned 
short on Quest: 

“Shut up!” he said sharply. “Do you hear! 
Shut up!” 

“No, I won’t shut up! Tl say what I damn 
please——” 

“* Haven’t you any decency at all 

“T’ve enough to fix Dysart good and plenty, and 
T’'ll do it! YVll—let go of me, Mallett !—let go, I tell 
you or a 

Duane jerked the pistol from his shaky fingers, and 
when Quest struggled to his feet with a baffied howl, 
jammed him back into the chair again and handed the 
pistol to Grandcourt, who locked it in a bureau drawer 
and pocketed the key. 

“You belong in Matteawan,” said the latter, fling- 
ing Quest back into the chair again as the infuriated 
man still struggled to rise. “ You miserable drunken 
kid—do you think you would be enhancing your sister’s 
reputation by dragging her name into a murder trial? 
What are you, anyway? By God, if I didn’t know your 
sister as a thoroughbred, I’d have you posted here for a 
mongrel and sent packing. The pound is your proper 
place, not a club-house”; which was an astonishing 
speech for Delancy Grandcourt. 

Again, half contemptuously, but with something al- 
most vicious in his violence, Grandcourt slammed young 
Quest back into the chair from which he had attempted 
to hurl himself: “‘ Keep quiet,” he said; “ you’re a par- 
ticularly vile little wretch, particularly pitiable; but 
your sister is a girl of gentle breeding—a sweet, charm- 
ing, sincere young girl whom everybody admires and 
respects. If you are anything but a gutter-mut, you'll 
respect her, too, and the only way you can do it is by 

413 


39 








THE DANGER MARK 








shutting that unsanitary whiskey-trap of yours—and 
keeping it shut—and by remaining as far away from 
her as you can, permanently.” 

There were one or two more encounters, brief ones; 
then Quest collapsed and began to cry. He was shak- 
ing, too, all over, apparently on the verge of some 
alcoholic crisis. 

Grandcourt went over to Duane: 

* The man is sick, helplessly sick in mind and body. 
If you’ll telephone Bailey at the Knickerbocker Hos- 
pital, he’ll send an ambulance and I'll go up there with 
this fool boy. He’s been like this before. Bailey knows 
what to do. Telephone from the station; I don’t want 
the club servants to gossip any more than is necessary. 
Do you mind doing it?” 

“Of course not,” said Duane. He glanced at the 
miserable, snivelling, twitching creature by the fire: 
“Do you think he’ll get over this, or will he buy an- 
other pistol the next time he gets the jumps? ” 

Grandcourt looked troubled: 

“IT don’t know what this breed is likely to do. He’s 
absolutely no good. He’s the only person in the world 
that is left of the family—except his sister. He’s all 
she has had to look out for her—a fine legacy, a fine 
prop for her to lean on. That’s the sort of protection 
she has had all her life; that’s the example set her in 
her own home. I don’t know what she’s done; it’s none 
of my business; but, Duane, I’m for her!” 

“So am I.” 

They stood together in silence for a moment; maud- 
lin sniffles of self-pity arose from the corner by the fire, 
alternating with more hysterical and more ominous 
sounds presaging some spasmodic crisis. 

Grandcourt said: “ Bunny Gray has helped me 

414 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








kennel this pup once or twice. He’s in the club; I 
think I'll send for him.” 

** You’ll need help,” nodded Duane. “Tl call up 
the hospital on my way to the station. Good-bye, De- 
lancy.” 

They shook hands and parted. 

At the station Duane telephoned to the hospital, 
got Dr. Bailey, arranged for a room in a private ward, 
and had barely time to catch his train—in fact, he was 
in such a hurry that he passed by without seeing the 
sister of the very man for whom he had been making 
such significant arrangements. 

She wore, as usual, her pretty chinchilla furs, but 
was so closely veiled that he might not have recognised 
her under any circumstances. She, however, forgetting 
that she was veiled, remained uncertain as to whether 
his failure to speak to her had been intentional or other- 
wise. She had halted, expecting him to speak; now 
she passed on, cheeks burning, a faint sinking sensation 
in her heart. 

For she cared a great deal about Duane’s friend- 
ship; and she was very unhappy, and morbid and more 
easily wounded than eyer, because somehow it had come 
to her ears that rumour was busily hinting things un- 
thinkable concerning her—nothing definite ; yet the very 
vagueness of it added to her distress and horror. 

Around her silly head trouble was accumulating 
very fast since Jack Dysart had come sauntering into 
her youthful isolation ; and in the beginning it had been 
what it usually is to lonely hearts—shy and grateful 
recognition of a friendship that flattered; fascination, 
an infatuation, innocent enough, until the man in the 
combination awoke her to the terrors of stranger emo- 
tions involving her deeper and deeper until she lost her 

28 415 


THE DANGER MARK 








head, and he, for the first time in all his career, lost his 
coolly selfish caution. 

How any rumours concerning herself and him had 
arisen nobody could explain. ‘There never is any ex- 
planation. But they always arise. 

In their small but pretty house, terrible scenes had 
already occurred between her and her brother—con- 
sternation, anger, and passionate denial on her part; 
on his, fury, threats, maudlin paroxysms of self-pity, 
and every attitude that drink and utter demoralisation 
can distort into a parody on what a brother might 
say and do. 

To escape it she had gone to Tuxedo for a week; 
now, fear and foreboding had brought her back—fear 
intensified at the very threshold of the city when Duane 
seemed to look straight at her and pass her by without 
recognition. Men don’t do that, but she was too inex- 
perienced to know it; and she hastened on with a heavy 
heart, found a taxi-cab to take her to the only home she 
had ever known, descended, and rang for admittance. 

In these miserable days she had come to look for 
hidden meaning even in the expressionless faces of her 
trained servants, and now she misconstrued the re- 
spectful smile of welcome, brushed hastily past the maid 
who admitted her, and ran upstairs. 

Except for the servants she was alone. She rang 
for information concerning her brother; nobody had 
any. He had not been home in a week. 

Her toilet, after the journey, took her two hours or 
more to accomplish; it was dark at five o’clock and 
snowing heavily when tea was served. She tasted it, 
then, unable to subdue her restlessness, went to the tele- 
phone; and after a long delay, heard the voice she 
tremblingly expected: 

416 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








“Ts that you, Jack?” she asked. 

6é Yes.” 

“* H-how are you?” 

** Not very well.” 

“Have you heard anything new about certain pro- 
ceedings? ” she inquired tremulously. 

“Yes; she’s begun them.” 

* On—on w-what grounds? ” 

“Not on any grounds to scare you. It will be a 
Western matter.” | 

Her frightened sigh of relief turned her voice to a 
whisper: 

“Has Stuyve—has a certain relative—annoyed 
you since I’ve been away?” 

* Yes, over the telephone, drunk, as usual.” 

“Did he make—make any more threats, Jack? ” 

“ The usual string. Where is he? ” 

“JT don’t know,” she said; * he hasn’t been home 
in a week, they tell me. Jack, do you think it safe 
for you to drop in here for a few moments before 
dinner? ” 

“ Just as you say. If he comes in, there may be 
trouble. Which isn’t a good idea, on your account.” 

No woman in such circumstances is moved very 
much by an appeal to her caution. 

“ But I want to see you, Jack,” she said miserably. 

“That seems to be the only instinct that governs 
you,” he retorted, slightly impatient. “ Can’t you ever 
learn the elements of prudence? It seems to me about 
time that you substituted common sense for immature 
impulse in dealing with present problems.” 

His voice was cold, emotionless, unpleasant. She 
stood with the receiver at her ears, flushing to the tips 
of them under his rebuke. She always did; she had 

417 


THE DANGER MARK 








known many, recently, but the quick pang of pain was 
never any less keen. On the contrary. 

* Don’t you want to see me? I have been away for 
ten days.” 

“Yes, I want to see you, of course, but I’m not 
anxious to spring a mine under myself—under us both 
by going into your house at this time.” 

“* My brother has not been here in a week.” 

** Does that accidental fact bar his possible appear- 
ance ten minutes from now? ” 

She wondered, vaguely, whether he was afraid of 
anything except possible damage to her reputation. 
She had, lately, considered this question on several oc- 
casions. Being no coward, as far as mere fear for her 
life was concerned, she found it difficult to attribute 
such fear to him. Indeed, one of the traits in her which 
he found inexplicable and which he disliked was a curi- 
ous fearlessness of death—not uncommon among wom- 
en who, all their lives, have had little to live for. 

She said: “If I am not worth a little risk, what is 
my value to you?” 

* You talk like a baby,” he retorted. “ Is an inter- 
view worth risking a scandal that will spatter the whole 
town? ” 

**T never count such risks,” she said wearily. “ Do 
as you please.” 

His voice became angry: “ Haven’t I enough to 
face already without hunting more trouble at present? 
I supposed I could look to you for sympathy and aid 
and common sense, and every day you call me up and 
demand that I shall drop everything and fling caution 
to the winds, and meet Be somewhere! Every day of 
the year you do it 

*T have been away ten days—” she faltered, turn- 

418 





QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








ing sick and white at the words he was shouting 
through the telephone. 

*‘ Well, it was understood you’d stay for a month, 
wasn’t it? Can’t you give me time to turn around? 
Can’t you give me half a chance? Do you realise what 
I’m facing? Do you?” 

“Yes. I’m sorry I called you; I was so miserable 
and lonely 3 

“ Well, try to think of somebody besides yourself. 
You’re not the only miserable person in this city. I’ve 
all the misery I can carry at present; and if you wish 
to help me, don’t make any demands on me until ’m 
clear of the tangle that’s choking me.” 

“Dear, I only wanted to help you—” she stam- 
mered, appalled at his tone and words. 

“ All right, then, let me alone!” he snarled, losing 
all self-command. “I’ve stood about all of this I’m 
going to, from you and your brother both! Is that 
plain? I want to be let alone. That is plainer still, 
isn’t it? ” 

“Yes,” she said. Her face had become deathly 
white; she stood frozen, motionless, clutching the re- 
ceiver in her small hand. 

His voice altered as he spoke again: 

“* Don’t feel hurt; I lost my temper and I ask your 
pardon. But I’m half crazy with worry—you’ve seen 
to-day’s papers, I suppose—so you can understand a 
man’s losing his temper. Please forgive me; I'll try to 
see you when I can—when it’s advisable. Does that 
satisfy you?” 

“ Yes,” she said in a dull voice. 

She put away the receiver and, turning, dropped 
onto her bed. At eight o’clock the maid who had come 
to announce dinner found her young mistress lymg 

419 





THE DANGER MARK 








there, clenched hands over her eyes, lying slim and 
rigid on her back in the darkness. 

When the electric lamps were lighted she rose, went 
to the mirror and looked steadily at herself for a long, 
long time. 


She tasted what was offered, seeing nothing, hear- 
ing nothing; later, in her room, a servant came saying 
that Mr. Gray begged a moment’s interview on a mat- 
ter of importance connected with her brother. 

It was the only thing that could have moved her to 
see him. She had denied herself to him all that winter; 
she had been obliged to make it plainer after a letter 
from him—a nice, stupid, boyish letter, asking her to 
marry him. And her reply terminated the attempts of 
Bunbury Gray to secure a hearing from the girl who 
had apparently taken so sudden and so strange an aver- 
sion to a man who had been nice to her all her life. 

They had, at one time, been virtually engaged, 
after Geraldine Seagrave had cut him loose, and be- 
fore Dysart took the trouble to seriously notice her. 
But Bunny was youthful and frisky and his tastes were 
catholic, and it did not seem to make much difference 
that Dysart again stepped casually between them in his 
graceful way. Yet, curiously enough, each preserved 
for the other a shy sort of admiration which, until last 
autumn, had made their somewhat infrequent encoun- 
ters exceedingly interesting. Autumn had altered their 
attitudes; Bunny became serious in proportion to the 
distance she put between them—which is of course the 
usual incentive to masculine importunity. They had 
had one or two little scenes at Roya-Neh; the girl even 
hesitated, unquietly curious, perplexed at her own atti- 
tude, yet diffidently interested in the man. 

420 


QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








A straw was all that her balance required to incline 
it; Dysart dropped it, casually. And there were no 
more pretty scenes between Bunny Gray and his lady- 
love that autumn, only sulks from the youth, and, after 
many attempts to secure a hearing, a very direct and 
honest letter that winter, which had resulted in his 
dismissal. 


She came down to the drawing-room, looking the 
spectre of herself, but her stillness and self-possession 
kept Bunny at his distance, staring, restless, amazed— 
all of which very evident symptoms and emotions she 
ignored. 

“JT have your message,” she said. “ Has any- 
thing happened to my brother? ” 

He began: “ You mustn’t be alarmed, but he is not 
very well ” 

“Tam alarmed. Where is he?” 

“In the Knickerbocker Hospital.” 

* Seriously ill? ” 

“No. He is in a private ward 

* The—alcoholic? ” she asked quietly. 

“Yes,” he said, flushing with the shame that had 
not burnt her white face. 

“May I go to him? ” she asked. 

No!” he exclaimed, horrified. 

She seated herself, hands folded loosely on her 
lap: 

“What am I to do, Bunny?” 

“ Nothing. . . . I only came to tell you so that 
you’d know. To-morrow if you care to telephone 
Bailey 3 , 

“Yes; thank you.” She closed her eyes; opened 
them with an effort. 











421 


THE DANGER MARK 








“Tf you'll let me, Sylvia, I’ll keep you informed,” he 
ventured. 

* Would you? Id be very glad.” 

“‘ Sure thing!” he said with great animation; “ I’ll 
go to the hospital as many times a day as I am allowed, 
and Ill bring you back a full account of Stuyve’s prog- 
ress after every visit. . . . May I, Sylvie?” 

She said nothing. He sat looking at her. He had 
no great amount of intellect, but he possessed an undue 
proportion of heart under the somewhat striking waist- 
coats which at all times characterised his attire. 

“I’m terribly sorry for you,” he said, his eyes very 
wide and round. | 

She gazed into space, past him. 

“Do you—would you prefer to have me go?” he 
stammered. 

There was no reply. 

** Because,” he said miserably, “ I take it that you 
haven’t much use for me.” 

No word from her. 

** Sylvie? ” 

Silence; but she looked up at him. “TI haven’t 
changed,” he said, and the healthy colour turned him 
pink. “ I—just—wanted you to know. I thought 
perhaps you might like to know: a 

“Why?” Her voice was utterly unlike her own. 

“Why?” he repeated, getting redder. “I don’t 
know—I only thought you might—it might—amuse 
you—to know that I haven’t changed , 

* As others have? Is that what you mean, 
Bunny? ” 

* No, no, I didn’t think—I didn’t mean a 

“Yes, you did. Why not say it to me? You mean 
that you, and others, have heard rumours. You mean 

422 











QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS 








that you, unlike others, are trying to make me under- 
stand that you are still loyal to me. Is that it?” 

*'Y-yes. Good Lord! Loyal! Why, of course I 
am. Why, you didn’t suppose I’d be anything else, did 
you?” 

She opened her pallid lips to speak and could not. ' 

** Loyal!” he repeated indignantly. ‘ There’s no 
merit in that when a man’s been in love with a girl all 
his life and didn’t know it until she’d got good and tired 
of him! You know I’m for you every time, Sylvia; 
what’s the game in pretending you didn’t know it?” 

“No game. . . . I didn’t—know it.” 

* Well, you do now, don’t you?” 

Her face was colourless as marble. She said, look- 
ing at him: “ Suppose the rumour is true?” 

His face flamed: “ You don’t know what you are 
‘saying! ” he retorted, horrified. 

* Suppose it is true? ” 

“ Sylvia—for Heaven’s sake——~” 

‘** Suppose it is true,” she repeated in a dead, even 
voice; “ how loyal would you remain to me then? ” 

* As loyal as I am now!” he answered angrily, “ if 
you insist on my answering such a silly question x 

“Ts that your answer? ” 

“Certainly. But ”? 

“ Are you sure?” 

He glared at her; something struck coldly through 
him, checking breath and pulse, then releasing both till 
the heavy beating of his heart made speech impossible. 

“I thought you were not sure,” she said. 

“TI am sure!” he broke out. “Good God, Sylvia, 
what are you doing to me?” 

* Destroying your faith in me.” 

* You can’t! I love you!” 

423 








THE DANGER MARK 








She gave a little gasp: 

“The rumour is true,” she said. 

He reeled to his feet; she sat looking up at him, 
white, silent hands twisted on her lap. 

“Now you know,” she managed to say. “ Why 
don’t you go? If you’ve any self-respect, you’ll go. 
I’ve told you what I am; do you want me to speak more 
plainly?” 

“ Yes,” he said between his teeth. 

* Very well; what do you wish to know? ” 

“Only one thing. . . . Do you—care for him? ” 

She sat, minute after minute, head bent, thinking, 
thinking. He never moved a muscle; and at last she 
lifted her head. 

“No,” she said. 

“Could you care for—me? ” 

She made a gesture as though to check him, half 
rose, fell back, sat swaying a moment, and suddenly 
tumbled over sideways, lying a white heap on the rug 
at his feet. 


CHAPTER XX 
IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 


As his train slowed down through the darkness and 
stopped at the snow-choked station, Duane, carrying 
suit-case, satchel, and fur coat, swung himself off the 
icy steps of the smoker and stood for a moment on the 
platform in the yellow glare of the railway lanterns, 
looking about him. 

Sleigh-bells sounded near — chiming through the 
still, cold air; he caught sight of two shadowy rest- 
ive horses, a gaily plumed sleigh, and, at the same mo- 
ment, the driver leaned sideways from her buffalo- 
robed seat, calling out to him by name. 

“Why, Kathleen!” he exclaimed, hastening for- 
ward. ‘Did you really drive down here all alone to 
meet me? ” 

She bent over and saluted him, demure, amused, 
bewitchingly pretty in her Isabella bear furs: 

“T really did, Duane, without even a groom, so we 
could talk about everything and anything all the way 
home. Give your checks to the station agent—there he 
is!—Oh, Mr. Whitley, would you mind sending up Mr. 
Mallett’s trunks to-night? Thank you so much. Now, 
Duane, dear e 

He tossed suit-case and satchel into the sleigh, put 
on his fur coat, and climbing up beside Kathleen, bur- 
rowed into the robes. 

“T tell you what,” he said seriously, “ you’re get- 

425 





THE DANGER MARK 








ting to be a howling beauty; not just an ordinary 
beauty, but a miracle. Do you mind if I kiss you 
again? ” 

“ Not after that,” she said, presenting him a fresh- 
curved cheek tinted with rose, and snowy cold. Then, 
laughing, she swung the impatient horses to the left; 
a jingling shower of golden bell-notes followed; and 
they were off through the starlight, tearing northward 
across the snow. 

“ Duane! ” she said, pulling the young horses down 
into a swift, swinging trot, “what do you think! 
Geraldine doesn’t know you’re coming!” 

“Why not?” he asked, surprised. “I tele- 
graphed.” 

“Yes, but she’s been on the mountain with old 
Miller for three days. Three of your letters are wait- 
ing for her; and then came your telegram, and of 
course Scott and I thought we ought to open it.” 

“Of course. But what on earth sent Geraldine up 
the Golden Dome in the dead of winter?” 

Kathleen shook her pretty head: 

‘“* She’s turned into the most uncontrollable sport- 
ing proposition you ever heard of! She’s up there at 
Lynx Peak camp, with her rifle, and old Miller. 
They’re after that big boar—the biggest, horridest 
thing in the whole forest. I saw him once. He’s dis- 
gusting. Scott objected, and so did I, but, somehow, 
I’m becoming reconciled to these break-neck enterprises 
she goes in for so hard—so terribly hard, Duane! and 
all I do is to fuss a little and make a few tearful objec- 
tions, and she laughs and does what she pleases.” 

He said: “ It is better, is it not, to let her? ” 

“Yes,” returned Kathleen quietly, “it is better. 
That is why I say very little.” 

426 


IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








There was a moment’s silence, but the constraint did 
not last. 

** Tt’s twenty below zero, my poor friend,” observed 
Kathleen. ‘“ Luckily, there is no wind to-night, but, all 
the Sas you ought to keap in touch with your nose 
and ears.” 

Duane investigated cautiously. 

‘“* My features are still sticking to my face,” he an- 
nounced; “is it really twenty below? It doesn’t seem 
so.” 

“Tt is. Yesterday the thermometers registered 
thirty below, but nobody here minds it when the wind 
doesn’t blow; and Geraldine has acquired the most 
exquisite colour!—and she’s so maddeningly pretty, 
Duane, and actually plump, in that long slim way of 
hers. . . . And there’s another thing; she is happier 
than she has been for a long, long while.” 

“Has that fact any particular significance to 
you? ” he asked slowly. 

“Vital! ... Do you understand me, Duane, 
dear? ” 

66 Yes.”’ 

A moment later she called in her clear voice: “* Gate, 
please!” A lantern flashed; a door opened in the 
lodge; there came a crunch of snow, a creak, and the 
gates of Roya-Neh swung wide in the starlight. 

Kathleen nodded her thanks to the keeper, let the 
whip whistle, and spent several minutes in consequence 
recovering control of the fiery young horses who were 
racing like scared deer. The road was wide, crossed 
here and there by snowy “ rides,” and bordered by the 
splendid Roya-Neh forests; wide enough to admit a 
white glow from myriads of stars. Never had Duane 
seen so many stars swarming in the heavens; the win- 

427 


THE DANGER MARK 








ter constellations were magnificent, their diamond-like 
lustre silvered the world. 

“TI suppose you want to hear all the news, all the 
gossip, from three snow-bound rustics, don’t you? ” she 
asked. “ Well, then, let me immediately report a most 
overwhelming tragedy. Scott has just discovered that 
several inconsiderate entomologists, who died before he 
was born, all wrote elaborate life histories of the Rose- 
beetle. Isn’t it pathetic? And he’s worked so hard, 
and he’s been like a father to the horrid young grubs, 
feeding them nice juicy roots, taking their weights and 
measures, photographing them, counting their de- 
graded internal organs—oh, it is too vexing! Because, 
if you should ask me, I may say that I’ve been a mother 
to them, too, and it enrages me to find out that all those 
wretched, squirming, thankless creatures have been 
petted and studied and have had their legs counted and 
their Bertillon measurements taken years before either 
Scott or I came into this old fraud of a scientific 
world!” 

Duane’s unrestrained laughter excited her merri- 
ment ; the star-lit woodlands rang with it and the treble 
chiming of the sleigh-bells. 

‘** What on earth will he find to do now?” asked 
Duane. 

* He’s going to see it through, he says. Isn’t it 
fme of him? There is just a bare chance that he may 
discover something that those prying entomological 
people overlooked. Anyway, we are going to devote 
next summer to studying the parasites of the Rose- 
beetle, and try to find out what sort of creatures prey 
upon them. And I want to tell you something exciting, 
Duane. Promise you won’t breathe one word!” 

“Not a word!” 

: 428 


IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








“ Well, then—Scott was going to tell you, any- 
way !|—we think—but, of course, we are not sure by any 
means !—but we venture to think that we have discov- 
ered a disease which kills Rose-beetles. We don’t know 
exactly what it is yet, or how they get it, but we are 
practically convinced that it is a sort of fungus.” 

She was very serious, very earnest, charming in 
her conscientious imitation of that scientific caution 
which abhors speculation and never dares assert any- 
thing except dry and proven facts. 

‘What are you and Scott aiming at? Are you 
going to try to start an epidemic among the Rose- 
beetles? ” he inquired. 

“Oh, it’s far too early to even outline our 
ideas ee ae 

“That’s right; don’t tell anything Scott wants to 
keep quiet about! Tl never say a word, Kathleen, 
only if you'll take my advice, feed ’em fungus! Stuff 
’em with it three times a day—give it to them boiled, 
fried, au gratin, 4 la Newburg! That’ll fetch ’em! 
. . » How is old Scott, anyway? ” 

* Perfectly well,” she said demurely. ‘ He informs 
us daily that he weighs one hundred and ninety pounds, 
and stands six feet two in his snow-shoes. He always. 
mentions it when he tells us that he is going to scrub’ 
your face in a snow-drift, and Geraldine invariably in- 
sists that he isn’t man enough. You know, as a matter 
of fact, we’re all behaving like very silly children up 
here. Goodness knows what the servants think.” Her 
smiling face became graver. 

“T am so glad that matters are settled and that 
there’s enough of your estate left to keep your mother 
and Naida in comfort.” 

He nodded. “ How is Scott coming out? ” 

429 





THE DANGER MARK 








* Why—he’ll tell you. I don’t believe he has very 
much left. Geraldine’s part is sufficient to run Roya- 
Neh, and the house in town, if she and Scott conclude 
to keep it. Old Mr. Tappan has been quite wonderful. 
Why, Duane, he’s a perfect old dear; and we all are so 
terribly contrite and so anxious to make amends for 
our horrid attitude toward him when he ruled us with 
an iron rod.” 

“* He’s a funny old duck,” mused Duane. ‘“ That 
son of his, Peter, has had the ‘ indiwidool cultiwated ’ 
clean out of him. He’s only a type, like Gibson’s 
drawings of Tag’s son. Old Tappan may be as 
honest as a block of granite, but it’s an awful thing 
that he should ever have presided over the destinies of 
children.” 

Kathleen sighed. ‘“ According to his light he was 
faithful. I know that his system was almost impossible ; 
I had to live and see my children driven into themselves 
until they were becoming too self-centred to care for 
anything else—to realise that there was anything else 
or anybody else except their wishes and themselves to 
consider. . . . But, Duane, you see the right quality 
was latent in them. They are coming out—they have 
emerged splendidly. It has altered their lives funda- 
mentally, of course, but, sometimes, I wonder whether, 
in their particular cases, it was not better to cripple 
the easy, irresponsible, and delightfully casual social 
instincts of the House of Seagrave. Educated accord- 
ing to my own ideas, they must inevitably have become, 
in a measure, types of the set with which they are iden- 
tified. . . . And the only serious flaw in the Seagraves 
was—weakness.” 

Duane nodded, looking ahead into the star-illumined 
night. 

430 


IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








**T don’t know. Tappan’s poison may have been the 
antidote for them in this case. Tell me, Kathleen, has 
Geraldine—suffered? ” 

“ce Yes.”’ 

* Very—much? ” 

‘Very much, Duane. Has she said nothing about 
it to you in her letters? ” 

** Nothing since she went to town that time. Every 
letter flies the red cross.’ Does she still suffer? ” 

**T don’t think so. She seems so wonderfully happy 
—so vigorous, in such superb physical condition. For 
a month I have not seen that pitiful, haunted expres- 
sion come into her eyes. And it is not mere restlessness 
that drives her into perpetual motion now; it’s a new 
delight in living hard and with all her might every 
moment of the day! . . . She overdoes it; you will turn 
her energy into other channels. She’s ready for you, 
I think.” 

They drove on in silence for a few minutes, then 
swung into a broader avenue of pines. Straight ahead 
glimmered the lights of Roya-Neh. 

Duane said naively: “I don’t suppose I could get 
up to Lynx Peak camp to-night, could I?” — 

Kathleen threw back her head, making no effort to 
control her laughter. 

“It isn’t necessary,” she managed to explain; “I 
sent a messenger up the mountain with a note to her 
saying that matters of importance required her imme- 
diate return. She'll come down to-night by sleigh from 
The Green Pass and Westgate Centre.” 

“* Won’t she be furious? ” he inquired, with a hypo- 
critical side glance at Kathleen, who laughed derisively 
and drew in the horses. under the porte-cochére. A 
groom took their heads; Duane swung Kathleen clear 

431 


99 


THE DANGER MARK 








to the steps just as Scott Seagrave, hearing sleigh- 
bells, came out, bareheaded, his dinner-jacket wide open, 
as though he luxuriated in the bitter air. 

“Good work!” he said. ‘ How are you, Duane? 
Geraldine arrived from The Green Pass about five 

minutes ago. She thinks you’re sleighing, Kathleen, 
' and she’s tremendously curious to know why you want 
her.” 

“She probably suspects,” said Kathleen, disap- 
pointed. 

“No, she doesn’t. I began to talk business imme- 
diately, and I know she thinks that some of Mr. Tap- 
pan’s lawyers are coming. So they are—next month,” 
he added with a grin, and, turning on Duane: 

“JT think I’ll begin festivities by washing your face 
in the snow.” 

“ You’re not man enough,” remarked the other ; and 
the next moment they had clinched and were swaying 
and struggling all over the terrace, to the scandal of 
the servants peering from the door. 

“ He’s tired and half frozen!” exclaimed Kathleen ; 
“ what a brute you are to bully him, Scott!” 

“T’ll include you in a moment,” he panted, loos- 
ing Duane and snatching a handful of snow. Where- 
upon she caught up sufficient snow to fill the hollow of 
her driving glove, powdered his face thoroughly with 
the feathery flakes, picked up her skirt and ran for it, 
knowing full well she could expect no mercy. 

Duane watched their reckless flight through the hall 
and upstairs, then walked in, dropped his coat, and ad- 
vanced across the heavy rugs toward the fireplace. 

On the landmg above he heard Geraldine’s laugh- 
ter, then silence, then her clear, careless singing as 
she descended the stairs: 

432 


IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








“ Lisetto quittée la plaine, 
Moi perdi bonheur & moi— 

Yeux 4 moi semblent fontaine 
Depuis moi pas miré toi!” 


At the doorway she halted, seeing a man’s figure 
silhouetted against the firelight. Then she moved for- 
ward inquiringly, the ruddy glow full in her brown 
eyes; and a little shock passed straight through her. 

“‘ Duane!” she whispered. 

He caught her in his arms, kissed her, locked her 
closer; her arms sought his head, clung, quivered, fell 
away; and with a nervous movement she twisted clear 
of him and stood breathing fast, the clamour of her 
heart almost suffocating her. And when again he 
would have drawn her to him she eluded him, wide-eyed, 
flushed, lips parted in the struggle for speech which 
came at last, brokenly: 

“ Dear, you must not take me—that way—yet. I 
am not ready, Duane. You must give me time! ” 

“Time! Is anything—has anything gone wrong? ” 

* No—oh, no, no, no! Don’t you understand I 
must take my own time? I’ve won the right to it; I’m 
winning out, Duane—winning back myself. I must 
have my little year of self-respect. Oh, can’t you un- 
derstand that you mustn’t sweep me off my feet this 
way ?—that I’m too proud to go to you—have you take 
me while there remains the faintest shadow of risk? ” 

* But I don’t care! I want you!” he cried. 

“T love you for it; I want, you, Duane. But be 
fair to me; don’t take me until I am as clean and 
straight and untainted as the girl I was—as I am be- 
coming—as I will be—surely, surely—my darling! ” 

She caught his hands in hers and, close to him, 

433 


THE DANGER MARK 








looked into his eyes smilingly, tearfully, and a little 
proudly. The sensitive under-lip quivered ; but she held 
her head high. 

“ Don’t ask me to give you what is less perfect than 
I can make it. Don’t let me remember my gift and be 
ashamed, dear. There must be no memory of your mis- 
taken generosity to trouble me in the years to come— 
the long, splendid years with you. Let me always re- 
member that I gave you myself as I really can be; let 
me always know that neither your love nor compassion 
were needed to overlook any flaw in what I give.” 

She bent her proud little head and laid her lips on 
his hands, which she held close between her own. 

“You can so easily carry me by storm, Duane; and 
in your arms I might be weak enough to waver and for- 
get and promise to give you now what there is of me if 
you demanded it. Don’t ask it; don’t carry me out 
of my depth. There is more to me than I can give you 
yet. Let me wait to give it lest I remember your un- 
fairness and my humiliation through the years to 
come.” 

She lifted her lips to his, offering them; he kissed 
her; then, with a little laugh, she abandoned his hands 
and stepped back, mocking, tormenting, enjoying his 
discomfiture. 

“It’s cruel, isn’t it, you poor lamb! But do you 
know the year is already flying very, very fast? Do 
you think I’m not counting the days? ”—and, suddenly 
yielding—* if you wish—if you truly do wish it, dear, 
I will marry you on the very day that the year—my 
year—ends. Come over here”—she seated herself 
and made a place for him—‘ and you won’t caress me 
too much—will you? You wouldn’t make me unhappy, 
would you? . . . Why, yes, I suppose that I might let 

434 


IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








you touch me occasionally. . . . And kiss me—at rare 
intervals. . . . But not—as we have. . . . You won’t, 
will you? Then you may sit here—a little nearer if 
you think it wise—and I’m ready to listen to your views 
concerning anything on earth, Duane, even including 
love and wedlock.” 

It was very hard for them to judge just what they 
might or might not permit each other—how near it was 
perfectly safe to sit, how long they might, with im- 
punity, look into each other’s eyes in that odd and 
rather silly fashion which never seems to be out of date. 

What worried him was the notion that if she would 
only marry him at once her safety was secured beyond 
question ; but she explained very sweetly that her safety 
was almost secured already; that, if let alone, she was 
at present in absolute command of her fate, mistress of 
her desires, in full tide of self-control. Now all she 
required was an interval to develop character and self- 
mastery, so that they could meet on even ground and 
equal terms when the day arrived for her to surrender 
to him the soul and body she had regained. 

“I suppose it’s all right,” he said with a sigh, but 
utterly unconvinced. “You always were fair about 
things, and if it’s your idea of justice to me and to 
yourself, that settles it.” 

** You dear old stupid!” she said, tenderly amused ; 
“it is the best thing for our future. The ‘sphere of 
influence’ and the ‘balance of power’ are as delicate 
matters to adjust in marriage as they are in world- 
politics. You’re going to be too famous a painter for 
your wife to be anything less than a thorough woman.” 

She drew a little away from him, bent her head and 
clasped both hands around her knee. 

“There is another reason why I should be in auto- 

435 


THE DANGER MARK 








cratic command over myself when we marry. . . . It is 
difficult for me to explain to you. . . . Do you remem- 
ber that I wrote you once that I was—afraid to marry 
you—not for our own sakes? ” 

Her young face was grave and serious ; she bent her 
gaze on her ringless fingers. 

“ That,’ she said, “is the most vital and—sacred 
reason of all.” 

“Yes, dear.” He did not dare to touch her, 
scarcely dared look at the pure, thoughtful profile 
until she lifted her head and her fearless eyes sought 
his. 


And they smiled, unembarrassed, unafraid. 


“Those people are deliberately leaving us here to 
spoon,” she declared indignantly. ‘I know perfectly 
well that dinner was announced ages ago!” And, rais- 
ing her voice: “ Scott, you silly nmny! Where in the 
world are you?” | 

Scott appeared with alacrity from the library, evi- 
dently detained there in hunger and impatience by 
Kathleen, who came in a moment later, pretty eyes inno- 
cently perplexed. 

' “TJ declare,” she said, “it is nine o’clock and din- 
ner is supposed to be served at eight!” And she seemed 
more surprised than ever when old Howker, who evi- 
dently had been listening off stage, entered with re- 
proachful dignity and announced that ceremony. 

And it was the gayest kind of a ceremony, for they 
ate and chattered and laughed there together as incon- 
sequentially as four children, and when Howker, with 
pomp and circumstance, brought in a roast boar’s head 
garnished with holly-like crimson elder, they all stood 
up and cheered as though they really liked the idea of 

436 


IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








eating it. However, there was, from the same animal, 
a saddle to follow the jowl, which everybody tasted and 
only Scott really liked; and, to Duane’s uneasy sur- 
prise, great silver tankards of delicious home-brewed 
ale were set at every cover except Geraldine’s. 

Catching his eye she shrugged slightly and smiled ; 
and her engaging glance returned to him at intervals, 
reassuring, humorously disdainful; and her serenely 
amused smile seemed to say: 

** My dear fellow, please enjoy your ale. There is 
not the slightest desire on my part to join you.” 

* That isn’t a very big wild boar,” observed Scott, 
critically eyeing the saddle. 

“It’s a two-year-old,” admitted Geraldine. “I 
only shot him because Lacy said we were out of meat.” 

* You killed him!” exclaimed Duane. 

She gave him a condescending glance; and Scott 
laughed. 

** She and Miller save this establishment from daily 
famine,” he said. ‘“ You have no idea how many deer 
and boar it takes to keep the game within limits and 
ourselves and domestics decently fed. Just look at the 
heads up there on the walls.” He waved his arm around 
the oak wainscoting, where, at intervals, the great 
furry heads of wild boar loomed in the candlelight, 
ears and mane on end, eyes and white sabre-like tusks 
gleaming. “Those are Geraldine’s,” he said with 
brotherly pride. 

“I want to shoot one, too!” said Duane firmly. 
“Do you think I’m going to let my affianced put it all 
over me like that? ” 

“ Tsn’t it like a man?” said Geraldine, appealing to 
Kathleen. “ ‘They simply can’t endure it if a girl ven- 
tures competition ‘“ 





437 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ You talk like a suffragette,” observed her brother. 
“Duane doesn’t care how many piglings you shoot; he 
wants to go out alone and get that old grandfather of 
all boars, the one which kept you on the mountain for 
the last three days <4 

“ My boar!” she cried indignantly. ‘I won’t have 
it! I won’t let him. Oh, Duane, am-I a pig to want 
to manage this affair when I’ve been after him all 
winter?—and he’s the biggest, grayest, wiliest thing 
you ever saw—a perfectly enormous silvery fellow 
with two pairs of Japanese sabre-sheaths for tusks 
and a mane like a lion, and a double bend in his nose 
and. 29 

Shouts of laughter checked her flushed animation. 

“Of course I’m not going to sneak out all alone and 
pot your old pig,” said Duane; “ I'll find one for my- 
self on some other mountain ‘i 

* But I want you to shoot with me!” she exclaimed 
in dismay. ‘“ I wanted you to see me stalk this boar and 
mark him down, and have you kill him. Oh, Duane, 
that was the fun. I’ve been saving him, I really have. 
Miller knows that I had a shot once—a pretty good 
one—and wouldn’t take it. I killed a four-year near 
Hurryon instead, just to save that one——” 

**'You’re the finest little sport in the land!” said 
Duane, “ and we are just tormenting you. Of course 
T’ll go with you, but I’m blessed if I pull trigger on that 
gentleman pig——” 

“You must! Vve saved him. Scott, make him say 
he will! Kathleen, this is really too annoying! A girl 
plans and plans and pictures to herself the happiness 
and surprise she’s going to give a man, and he’s too 
stupid to comprehen ” 

‘“* Meaning me!” observed Duane. ‘ But I leave it 

438 














IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








to you, Scott; a man can’t do such a thing de- 
cently ¥ 

“Oh, you silly people,” laughed Kathleen; “ you 
may never again see that boar. Denman, keeper at 
Northgate when Mr. Atwood owned the estate, told me 
that everybody had been after that boar and nobody 
ever got a shot at him. Which,” she added, “ does 
not surprise me, as there are some hundred square miles 
of mountain and forest on this estate, and Scott is lazy 
and aging very fast.” 

** By the way, Sis, you say you got a four-year near 
The Green Pass? ” 

She nodded, busy with her bon-bon. 

“Was it exciting? ” asked Duane, secretly eaten up 
with pride over her achievements and sportsmanship. 

“No, not very.” She went on with her bon-bon, 
then glanced up at her brother, askance, like a bad child 
afraid of being reported. 

“Old Miller is so fussy,” she said—“ the old, 
spoilt tyrant! He is really very absurd sometimes.” 

“ Oho!” said Scott suspiciously, “ so Miller is com- 
ing to me again!” 

“ He—I’m afraid he is. Did you,” appealing to 
Kathleen, “ ever know a more obstinate, unreasoning 
old man: 

* Geraldine! What did you do!” she exclaimed. 

* Yes,” said Scott, annoyed, “ what the deuce have 
you been up to now? Miller is perfectly right; he’s an 
old hunter and knows his business, and when he comes 
to me and complains that you take fool risks, he’s doing 
his duty!” 

He turned to Duane: 

“That idiot girl,’ he said, nodding toward his 
abashed sister, “ knocked over a boar last month, ran 

29 439 








THE DANGER MARK 








up to look at his tusks, and was hurled into a snow- 
drift by the beast, who was only creased. He went for 
Miller, too, and how he and my sister ever escaped with- 
out a terrible slashing before Geraldine shot the brute, 
nobody knows. ... There’s his head up there—the 
wicked-looking one over the fireplace.” 

* That’s not. good sportsmanship,” said Duane 
gravely. 

Geraldine hung her head, colouring. 

** T know it; I mean to keep cool; truly, Ido. But 
things happen so quickly ” 

“Why are you afraid Miller is going to com- 
plain? ” interrupted her brother. 

“ Scott—it wasn’t anything very much—that is, I 
didn’t think so. You’d have done it—you know it’s a 
point of honour to track down wounded game.” 

She turned to Duane: 

“The Green Pass feeding-ground was about a 
thousand yards ahead in the alders, and I made Miller 
wait while I crept up. There was a fine boar feeding 
about two hundred yards off, and I fired and he 
went over like a cat in a fit, and then up and off, and 
I after him, and Miller after me, telling me-to look 
out.” 

She laughed excitedly, and made a little gesture. 
“ 'That’s just why I- ran—to look out !—and the trail 
was deep and strong and not much blood-dust. I was 
so vexed, so distressed, because it was almost sunset and 
the boar seemed to be going strongly and faster than a 
grayhound. And suddenly Miller shouted something 
about ‘ scrub hemlock ’—I didn’t know he meant for me 
to halt!—So I—I”—she looked anxiously at her 
brother—“ I jumped into the scrub and kicked him up 
before I knew it—and he—he tore my kilts—just one 

440 





IN SEARCH OF HERSELF 








or two tears, but it didn’t wound me, Scott, it only just 
made my leg black and blue—and, anyway, I got 
Pith ieee 

“Oh, Lord,” groaned her brother, “don’t you 
know enough to reconnoitre a wounded boar in the 
scrub? J don’t know why he didn’t rip you. Do you 
want to be killed by a pig? What’s the use of being all 
cut and bitten to pieces, anyway? ” 

** No use, dear,” she admitted so meekly that Duane 
scarcely managed to retain his gravity. 

She came over and humbly slipped her arm through 
his as they all rose from the table. 

“Don’t think I’m a perfect idiot,” she said under 
her breath; “it’s only imexperience under excitement. 
You’ll see that I’ve learned a lot when we go out to- 
gether. Miller will admit that I’m usually prudent, be- 
cause, two weeks ago, I hit a boar and he charged me, 
and my rifle jammed, and I went up a tree! Wasn’t 
that prudent? ” 

“ Perfectly,” he said gravely ; “ only I’d feel safer if 
you went up a tree in the first place and remained there. 
What a child you are, anyway!” 

“* Do you know,” she confided in him, “ I am a regu- 
lar baby sometimes. I do the silliest things in‘ the 
woods. Once I gave Miller the slip and went off and 
built a doll’s house out of snow and made three snow 
dolls and played with them! Isn’t that the silliest 
thing? And another time a boar came out by the West- 
gate Oaks, and he was a black, hairy fellow, and so 
funny with his chin-whiskers all dotted with icicles that 
I began to say aloud: 


‘I swear by the beard 
On my chinny-chin-chin—’ 
44] 


THE DANGER MARK 








And of course he was off before I could pull trigger for 
laughing. Isn’t that foolish? ” 

“* Adorably,” he whispered. “ You are finding the 
little girl in the garden, Geraldine.” 

She looked up at him, serious, wistful. 

“It’s the boy who found her; I only helped. But 
I want to bring her home all alone.” 


CHAPTER XXI 
THE GOLDEN HOURS 


Tue weather was unsuitable for hunting. It snowed 
for a week, thawed over night, then froze, then snowed 
again, but the moon that night promised a perfect day. 

Young Mallett supposed that he was afoot and 
afield before anybody else in house could be stirring, 
but as he pitched his sketching easel on the edges of the 
frozen pasture brook, and opened his field-box, a far 
hail from the white hill-top arrested him. 

High poised on the snowy crest above him, clothed 
in white wool from collar to knee-kilts, and her thick 
clustering hair flying, she came flashing down the hill 
on her skis, soared high into the sunlight, landed, and 
shot downward, pole balanced. 

Like a silvery meteor she came flashing toward him, 
then her hair-raising speed slackened, and swinging in 
a widely gracious curve she came gliding across the 
glittering field of snow and quietly stopped in front of 
him. 

** Since when, angel, have you acquired this miracu- 
lous accomplishment? ” he demanded. 

“Do I do it well, Duane? ” 

“A swallow from paradise isn’t in your class, 
dear,” he admitted, fascinated. “Is it easy—this new 
stunt of yours? ” 

“Try it,” she said so sweetly that he missed the 
wickedness in her smile. 
443 


THE DANGER MARK 








So, balancing, one hand on his shoulder, she disen- 
gaged her moccasins from the toe-clips, and he shoved 
his felt timber-jack boots into the leather loops, and 
leaning on the pointed pole which she handed him, gazed 
with sudden misgiving down the gentle acclivity below. 
She encouraged him; he listened, nodding his compre- 
hension of her instructions, but still gazing down the 
hill, a trifle ill at ease. 

However, as skates and snow-shoes were no mys- 
tery to him, he glanced at the long, narrow runners 
curved upward at the extremities, with more assurance, 
and his masculine confidence in all things masculine re- 
turned. Then he started, waved his hand, smiling his 
condescension ; then he realised that he was going faster 
than he desired to; then his legs began to do disre- 
spectful things to him. The treachery of his own pri- 
vate legs was most disheartening, for they wavered and 
wobbled deplorably, now threatening to cross each 
other, now veering alarmingly wide of his body. He 
made a feebly desperate attempt to use his trail-pole; 
and the next second all that Geraldine could see of the 
episode was mercifully enveloped in a spouting pin- 
wheel of snow. 

Like all masculine neophytes, he picked himself up 
and came back, savagely confident in his humiliation. 
She tried to guide his first toddling ski-steps, but he 
was mad all through and would have his own way. 
With a set and mirthless smile, again and again he 
gave himself to the slope and the mercy of his insur- 
gent legs, and at length, bearing heavily on his trail- 
pole, managed to reach the level below without cap- 
sizing. 

She praised him warmly, rescued his wool gloves 
and cap from snowy furrows into which their owner had 

444. 


THE GOLDEN HOURS 








angrily but helplessly dived; and then she stepped into 
her skis and ascended the hill beside him with that long- 
limbed, graceful, swinging stride which he had ven- 
tured to believe might become him also. 

He said hopelessly: “‘ If you expect me to hunt wild 
boar with you on skis, there’ll be some wild and widely 
distributed shooting in this county. How can I hit a 
boar while describing unwilling ellipses in mid-air or 
how can I run away from one while I’m sticking nose 
down in a snow-drift? ” 

Too faint with laughter to reply, she stood lean- 
ing on her trailing-pole and looking over his shoulder 
as he repitched his sketching easel, squeezed the col- 
ours from the leaden tubes, and set his palette. 

“Tm horribly hungry,” he grumbled; “ too hungry 
to make a decent sketch. How cold is it, anyway? I be- 
lieve that this paint is trying to freeze on my palette! ” 

“What are you going to paint?” she asked, her 
rounded chin resting on his shoulder. 

“That frozen brook.” He looked around at her, 
hesitating; and she laughed and nodded her compre- 
hension. 

“You want to make a sketch of me, dear. Why 
don’t you ask me? Do you think I’d refuse? ” 

“It’s so beastly cold to ask you to stand. still——” 

“Cold! Why, it’s much warmer; it’s ten above 
zero. I’ll stand wherever you wish. Where do you 
want me; here above you, against the snow and sky? ” 

The transcendent loveliness of the picture she made 
set that excited thrill quivering through every vein; 
but he took a matter-of-fact grip on his emotions be- 
cause good work is done in cold blood, even if it some- 
times may be conceived in exaltation. 

“Don’t move,” he said serenely; “ you are exactly 

445 


THE DANGER MARK 








right as you stand. Tell me the very moment you feel 
cold. Promise? ” 

“ Yes, dear.” 

His freezing colours bothered him, and at times he 
used them almost like pastels. He worked rapidly, 
calmly, and with that impersonal precision that made 
every brush stroke an integral factor in the ensemble. 

At almost any stage of the study the accidental 
brilliancy of his progress might have been terminated 
abruptly, leaving a sketch rarely beautiful in its indi- 
cated and unfinished promise. 

But the pitfalls of the accidental had no allure- 
ments for him. She rested, changed position, stretched 
her limbs, took a long circle or two, skimming the hill- 
side when she needed the reaction. But always she came 
swinging back again to stand and watch her lover with 
a half-smiling, half-tender gaze that tried his sangfroid 
terribly when he strove to catch it and record it in the 
calm and scientific technique which might excite any- 
body except the workman. 

* Am I pretty, Duane? ” 

* Annoyingly divine. I’m trying not to think of it, 
dear, until my hand and heart may wobble with im- 
punity. Are you cold?” 

“No. . . . Do you think you’ll make a full-fledged 
picture from this motive? ” 

** How did you guess?” 

“T don’t know. I’ve a premonition that your repu- 
tation is going to soar up like a blazing star from this 
waste of snow around us... . I wish—TI wish that it 
might be from me, through me—my humble aid—that 
your glory breaks out i 

“Tf it ever does, it will do it through you. I told 
you that long ago.” 





446 


THE GOLDEN HOURS 








“6 Yes.” 

*“* T’ve known it a long, long time, Geraldine. With- 
out you there’s nothing to me except surface. You are 
the depths of me.” 

* And you of me, Duane.” Sweet eyes remote, she 
stood looking into space; at peace with her soul, dream- 
ing, content. And it was then that he caught and im- 
prisoned in colour the nameless beauty which was the 
foundation for his first famous picture, whose snowy 
splendour silenced all except those little critics who 
chirp automatically, eternally, on the ruddy hearth- 
stone of the gods. 


From the distant hill-top a voice bellowed at them 
through a megaphone; and, looking aloft, they beheld 
Scott gesticulating. 

“If you two mental irresponsibles want any break- 
fast,” he shouted, “ you’d better hustle! Miller tele- 
phones that the big boar fed below Cloudy Mountain at 
sunrise!” _ 

Geraldine looked at her lover, cheeks pink with ex- 
citement. He was immensely interested, too, and as 
soon as he could fold his easel, lock up brushes and 
palette, protect his canvas with a fresh one faced with 
cork buffers, they started for the house, discussing the 
chances for a shot that afternoon. 

Like the most desirable and wary of most species of 
game, furry or finny, the huge, heavily tusked veterans 
of the wild-boar family often feed after dark, being too 
cunning to banquet by daylight and carouse with the 
gayer blades and the big, fierce sows of the neighbour- 
hood. 

Sometimes in the white gloom of snow-storms there 
is a chance for a shot; sometimes in a remoter fastness a 

80 44:7 


THE DANGER MARK 








big boar may deem himself secure enough to venture 
out where there are no witnesses to his solitary gas- 
tronomic revels save an Arctic owl or two huddled 
high in the hemlocks. 

And it was in the rocky oak-ridges of the wild 
country under Cloudy Mountain that Miller had 
marked down the monarch of all wild pigs—the great, 
shaggy, silver-tipped boar, hock-deep in snow, crunch- 
ing frozen acorns and glaring off over the gully where 
mile after mile of white valley and mountain ranges 
stretched away, clotted and streaked with pine. 

“Why don’t we all go?” asked Geraldine, seating 
herself behind the coffee-urn and looking cordially 
around at the others. 

** Because, dear,” said Kathleen, “I haven’t the 
slightest desire to run after a wild boar or permit him 
to amble after me; and all that reconciles me to your 
doing it is that Duane is going with you.” 

“TIT personally don’t like to kill things,” observed 
Scott briefly. ‘‘ My sister is the primitive of this out- 
fit. She’s the slayer, the head hunter, the lady-boss of 
this kraal.” 

“Is it very horrid of me, Duane?” she asked 
anxiously, “to find excitement in this sort of thing? 
Besides, we do need meat, and the game must be kept 
thinned down by somebody. And Scott won’t.” 

“ Whatever you do is all right,” said Duane, laugh- 
ing, “even when you jeer at my gymnastics on skis. 
Oh, Lord! but I’m hungry. Scott, are you going to 
take all those sausages and muffins, you bespectacled 
ruffian! Kathleen, heave a plate at him!” 

Kathleen was too scandalised to reply; Scott sur- 
rendered the desired muffins, and sorted the morning 
mail, which had just been brought in. 

448 


THE GOLDEN HOURS 








* Nothing for you, Sis, except bills; one letter for 
Duane, two for Kathleen, and the rest for me ”—he 
examined the envelopes—* all from brother correspon- 
dents and eager aspirants for entomological honours. 
. . . Here’s your letter, Duane!” scaling it across the 
table in spite of Kathleen’s protest. 

They had the grace to ask each other’s permission 
to read. 

** Oh, listen to this!” exclaimed Scott gleefully: 


“Dear Sir: Your name has been presented to the 
Grand Council which has decided that you are eligible 
for membership in the International Entomological So- 
ciety of East Orange, N. J., and you have, therefore, 
been unanimously elected. 

** Have the kindness to inform me of your accept- 
ance and inclose your check for $25, which includes 
your dues for five years and a free subscription to the 
society’s monthly magazine, The Fly-Paper i 





“ Scott, don’t do it. You get one of those kind of 
things every day!” exclaimed Geraldine. ‘ They only 
want your $25, anyway.” 

“It’s an innocent recreation,” grinned Duane. 
“ Why not let Scott append to his signature— M.LE. 
S.E.0.N.J..—Member International Entomological So- 
ciety, East Orange, New Jersey. It only costs $25 
to do i ? 

“'That’s all right,” said Scott, reddening, “ but 
possibly they may have read my paper on the Prionians 
in the last Yonkers Magazine of Science. It wasn’t a 
perfectly rotten paper, was it, Kathleen? ” 

“It was mighty clever!” she said warmly. “ Don’t 
mind those two scoffers, Scott. If you take my advice 

449 





THE DANGER MARK 








you will join this East Orange Society. That would 
make six scientific societies he has joined since Christ- 
mas,” she continued, turning on Duane with. severe 
pride; adding, “and there’s a_ different coloured 
ribbon. decoration for his buttonhole from each 
society.” 

But Duane and Geraldine were very disrespectful ; 
they politely offered each other memberships in all sorts 
of societies, including one yard of ribbon decoration, 
one sleigh-bell, and five green trading stamps, until 
Scott hurled an orange at Duane, who caught it and 
blew a kiss at him as recompense. 

Then they went outside, on Scott’s curt invitation, 
and wrestled and scuffled and scrubbed each other’s 
faces with snow like schoolboys, until, declaring they 
were hungry again, they came back to the breakfast- 
room and demanded more muffins and sausages and 
coffee. 

Kathleen rang and, leaning over, handed Geraldine 
a brief letter from Rosalie Dysart: 


* Do you think Geraldine would ask me up for a 
few days?” it began. “I’m horribly lonesome and 
unhappy and I’m being talked about, and I’d rather be 
with you wholesome people than with anybody I know, 
if you don’t mind my making a refuge of your gener- 
osity. I’m a real victim of that dreadful sheet in town, 
which we all have a contempt for and never subscribe 
to, and which some of us borrow from our maids or 
read at our modistes—the sheet that some of us are 
genuinely afraid of—and part of our fear is that it 
may neglect us! You know, don’t you, what really 
vile things it is saying about me? If you don’t, your 
servants do, 

450 


THE GOLDEN HOURS 








“So if you’d rather not have me, I won’t be of- 
fended, and, anyway, you are dear and decent people 
and I love you. 

“ Rosauie Dene.” 


‘** How funny,” mused Geraldine. ‘“‘ She’s dropped 
Jack Dysart’s name already in private correspondence. 
. . - Poor child!” Looking up at Kathleen, “ We must 
ask her, mustn’t we, dear? ” 

There was more of virginal severity in Kathleen. 
She did not see why Rosalie, under the circumstances, 
should make a convenience of Geraldine, but she. did 
not say so; and, perhaps, glancing at the wistful 
young girl before her, she understood this new tolera- 
tion for those in dubious circumstances—comprehended 
the unusual gentleness of judgment which often softens 
the verdict of those who themselves have drifted too 
near the danger mark ever to forget it or to condemn 
those still adrift. 

* Yes,” she said, “ ask her.” 

Duane looked up from the perusal of his own letter 
as Kathleen and Scott strolled off toward the green- 
houses where the latter’s daily entomological researches 
continued under glass and the stimulous artificial heat 
and Kathleen Severn. 

“‘ Geraldine,” he said, “ here’s a letter from Bunny 
Gray. He and Sylvia Quest were married yesterday 
very quietly, and they sailed for Cape Town this morn- 
ing!” 

“ What!” 

“'That’s what he writes. Did you ever hear of any- 
thing quicker? ” 

“ How funny,” she said. ‘ Bunny and Sylvia? I 
knew he was attentive to her but = 

451 


bd 





THE DANGER MARK 








“You mean Dysart?” he said carelessly. ‘ Oh, 
he’s only a confirmed débutante chaser; a sort of social 
measles. They all recover rapidly.” 

“T had the—social measles,” said Geraldine, smil- 
ing. 

Duane repressed a shiver. “It’s inevitable,” he 

said gaily... . “ That Bunny is a decent fellow.” 
: “ Will you show me his letter? ” she asked, extend- 
ing her hand as a matter of course. 

“No, dear.” 

She looked up surprised. 

“Why not? Oh—TI beg your pardon, dear 

Duane bent over, kissed her hand, and tossed the 
letter into the fire. It was her first experience in 
shadows cast before, and it came to her with a little 
shock that no two are ever one in the prosier sense of 
the theory. 

The letter that Duane had read was this: 


3”? 





** Sylvia and I were married quietly yesterday and 
she has told me that you will know why. There is little 
further for me to say, Duane. My wife is ill. We’re 
going to Cape Town to live for a while. We’re going 
to be happy. Iam now. She will be. 

“* My wife asked me to write you. Her regard for 
you is very high. She wishes me to tell you that I know 
everything I ought to have known when we were mar- 
ried. You were very kind to her. You’re a good deal 
of a man, Duane. 

“I want to add something: her brother, Stuyve, is 
out of the hospital and loose again. He’s got all the 
virtues of a Pomeranian pup—that is, none; and he’ll 
make a rotten bad fist of it. Ill tell you now that, dur- 
ing the past winter, twice, when drunk, he shot at his 

452 


THE GOLDEN HOURS 








sister. She did not tell me this; he did, when in a snivel- 
ling condition at the hospital. 

** So God knows what he may do in this matter. It 
seems that the blackguard in question has been warned 
to steer clear of Stuyvesant. It’s up to them. I shall 
be glad to have Sylvia at Cape Town for a while. 

“*Delancy Grandcourt was witness for me, Rosalie 
for Sylvia. Delancy is a brick. Won’t you ask him 
up to Roya-Neh? He’s dying to go. 

** And this is all. It’s a queer life, isn’t it, old fel- 
low? But a good sporting proposition, anyway. It 
suits me. 

“Our love to you, to the little chatelaine of Roya- 
Neh, to her brother, to Kathleen. 

“Tell them we are married and off for Cape Town, 


but tell them no more. 
“ B. Gray.” 


ie ¥ 
Pa 
i 


“It isn’t necessary to say burn this scrawl.’ 


Geraldine, watching him in calm speculation, 
said: 

“I don’t see why they were married so quietly. No- 
body’s in mourning ? 

“ Dear? ” 

“ What, dear? ” 

** Do something for me.” 

** I promise.” 

“Then ask Delancy up here to shoot. Do you 
mind? ”’ 

“I'd love to. Can he come?” 

“TI think so.” 

“Tl write now. Won’t it be jolly,” she said inno- 
cently, “to have him and Rosalie here together & 

453 








THE DANGER MARK 








The blank change on his face checked her. “ Isn’t 
it all right? ” she asked, astonished. 

He had made his blunder. There was only one thing 
for him to say and he said it cordially, mentally 
damning himself for forgetting that Rosalie was to be 
invited. 

“Til write to them both this morning,” concluded 
Geraldine. ‘Of course poor Jack Dysart is out of 
the question.” 

“A little,” he said mildly. And, furious with him- 
self, he rose as she stood up, and followed her into the 
armory, her cool little hand trailing and just touching 
his. 

For half an hour they prowled about, examining 
Winchesters, Stevens, Mianlichers—every make and 
pattern of rifle and fowling-piece was represented in 
Scott’s collection. 

** Odd, isn’t it, that he never shoots,’ mused Duane, 
lifting out a superb weapon from the rack behind the 
glass doors. ‘“ This seems to be one of those murder- 
ous, low trajectory pieces that fires a sort of brassy 
shot which is still rismg when it’s a mile beyond the 
bunker. Now, sweetheart, if you’ve a heavy suit of 
ancient armour which I can crawl into, I’ll defy any 
boar that roots for mast on Cloudy Mountain.” 

It was great fun for Geraldine to lay out their 
equipment in two neat piles; a rifle apiece with cases 
and bandoliers; cartridges, two hunting-knives with 
leather sheaths, shooting hoods and coats; and timber- 
jack’s boots for her lover, moccasins for her; a pair of 
heavy sweaters for each, and woollen mitts, fashioned to 
leave the trigger finger free. 

Beside these she laid two fur-lined overcoats, and 
backed away in naive admiration at her industry. 

454 


THE GOLDEN HOURS 








** Wonderful, wonderful,” he said. ‘* We’ll only re- 
quire saucepans and boiler lids to look exactly like 
Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee arrayed for battle. I 
say, Geraldine, how am I going to flee up a tree with 
all that on—and snow-shoes to boot-s,”” he added shame- 
lessly, grinning over his degraded wit. 

She ignored it, advised him with motherly directness 
concerning the proper underwear he must don, looked 
at her rifle, examined his and, bidding him assume it, 
led him out to the range in the orchard and made him 
target his weapon at a hundred yards. 

There was a terrific fusillade for half an hour or so; 
his work was respectable, and, satisfied, she led him 
proudly back to the house and, curling up on the 
leather divan in the library, invited him to sit beside 
her. 

** Do you love me? ” she inquired with such imper- 
sonal curiosity that he revenged himself fully then and 
there; and she rose and, instinctively repairing the dis- 
order of her hair, seated herself reproachfully at a dis- 
tance. 

“Can’t a girl ask a simple question?” she said, 
aggrieved. . 

“Sure. Ask it again, dearest.” 

She disdained to reply, and sat coaxing the tendrils 
of her dark hair to obey the dainty discipline of her 
slender fingers. 

“JT thought you weren’t going to,” she observed 
irrelevantly. But he seemed to know what she meant. 

“Don’t you want me to even touch you for a 
year?” 

“It isn’t a year. Months of it are over.” 


** But in the months before us a 
<4 No.” 





455 


THE DANGER MARK 








She picked up a book. When he reached for a 
magazine she looked over the top of her book at him, 
then read a little, glanced up, read a little more, and 
looked at him again. 

* Duane? ” 

“What? ” 

“This is a fool of a book. Do you want to read 
it?” 

* No, thanks.” 

“Over my shoulder, I mean? ” 

He got up, seated himself on the arm of her chairs 
and looked at the printed page over her shoulder. 

For a full minute neither moved; then she turned 
her head, very slowly, and, looking into his eyes, she 
rested her lips on his. 

“My darling,” she said; “ my darling.” 

Which is one of the countless variations of the mal- 
ady which makes the world spin round in one continual 
and perpetual fit. 


CHAPTER XXII 
CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 


Five days running, Geraldine, Duane, and old Mil- 
ler watched for the big gray boar among the rocky 
oak ridges under Cloudy Mountain; and though once 
they saw his huge tracks, they did not see him. 

Every night, on their return, Scott jeered them and 
taunted them until a personal encounter with Duane 
was absolutely necessary, and they always adjourned to 
the snowy field of honour to wipe off the score and each 
other’s faces with the unblemished snow. 

Rosalie and a Chow-dog arrived by the middle of 
the week; Delancy toward the end of it, unencumbered. 
Duane made a mental note of his own assininity, and let 
it go at that. He was as glad to see Rosalie as any- 
body, and just as glad to see Delancy, but he’d have 
preferred to enjoy the pleasures separately, though it 
really didn’t matter, after all. 

“ Sooner or later,” he admitted to himself, “ that 
Delancy man is going to marry her; and it seems to me 
she’s entitled to another chance in the world. Even 
our earthly courts are lenient toward first offenders. 
As for the ethics—puzzle it out, you!” He made a 
gesture including the world in general, lighted a 
cigarette, and went out to the gun-room to join Ger- 
aldine. 

“ Rosalie and Delancy want to go shooting with 
us,” he explained with a shrug. 

457 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ Oh, Duane!—and our solitary and very heavenly 
trips alone together! ” 

“JT know it. I have just telephoned Miller to get 
Kemp from Westgate for them. Is that all right?” 

* Yes ”—she hesitated—“ I think so.” 

“Let Kemp guide them,” he insisted. ‘ They’ll 
never hold out as far as Cloudy Mountain. All they 
want is to shoot a boar, no matter how big it is. Miller 
says the boar are feeding again near the Green Pass. 
It’s easy enough to send them there.” 

“ Do you think that is perfectly hospitable? Rosalie 
and Delancy may find it rather stupid going off alone 
together with only Kemp to amuse them. I am fond 
of him,” she added, “ but you know what a woman like 
Rosalie is prone to think of Delancy.” 

He glanced at her keenly; she had, evidently, not 
the slightest notion of the status quo. 

“Oh, they'll get along together, all right,” he said 
carelessly. “If they choose to remain with us, of 
course we all can keep on to Cloudy Mountain; but 
you'll see them accept Kemp and the Green Pass with 
grateful alacrity after two miles of snow-shoeing 
through the brush; and we'll have the mountain all to 
ourselves.” 

* You’re a shameless deviser of jonbaely aren’t you, 
dear? ” she asked, considering him with that faint, in- 
timate smile, which, however, had always in it some- 
thing of curiosity. ‘‘ You know perfectly well we could 
drive those poor people the whole way to Cloudy Moun- 
tain.” 

“* Why, that is so!” he exclaimed, pretending sur- 
prise; “ but, after all, dear, it’s better sport to beat up 
the alders below Green Pass and try to jump a Pe 
for them. That’s true hospitality-———” 

458 


CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 








She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, Duane, 
Duane!” she murmured, suffering him to capture both 
her hands and lay them against his face to cover the 
glee that twitched it at his own unholy perfidy. 

And so it came about that, after an early luncheon, 
a big double sleigh jingled up, received its jolly cargo, 
and sped away again into the white woodlands, Kath- 
leen waving adieu and Scott deriding them with scoffing 
and snowballs. 

The drive was very beautiful, particularly through 
the pine and hemlock belt where the great trees, clothed 
heawily with snow, bent branch and crest under the pale 
winter sunshine. Tall fir-balsams pricked the sky, per- 
fect cones of white; spruces were snowy mounds; far 
into the forest twilight glimmered the unsullied snow. 

As they sped along, Geraldine pointed out imprints 
of fox and rabbit, faint trails where a field-mouse had 
passed, the string of henlike footprints recording the 
deliberate progress of some ruffed grouse picking its 
leisurely way across the snow; the sharp, indented 
marks of squirrels. 

Rosalie was enchanted, Delancy mildly so, but when 
a deeper trail ploughed the snow, running parallel to 
their progress, he regarded it with more animation. 

* Pig,” said Geraldine briefly. 

* Wild? ” he inquired. 

“Of course,” she smiled; “and probably a good 
big boar.” 

Rosalie thrilled and unconsciously rested her fur- 
gloved hand on Delancy’s sleeve. 

“You know,” she said, “ you must shoot a little 
straighter than you did at target practice this morn- 
ing: Because I can’t run very fast,” she added with 
another delightful shudder. 

459 


THE DANGER MARK 








Delancy, at her anxious request, modestly assured 
her that he would “ plug” the first boar that showed 
his tusks; and Geraldine laughed and made Rosalie 
promise to do the same. 

** You’re both likely to have a shot,” she said as the 
sleigh drew up on a stone bridge and Miller and Kemp 
came over and saluted—big, raw-boned men on snow- 
shoes, wearing no outer coats over their thin woollen 
shirts, although every thermometer at Roya-Neh re- 
corded zero. 

Gun-cases were handed out, rifles wikledacmn; and 
the cases stowed away in the sleigh again. Fur coats 
were rolled in pairs, strapped, and slung behind the 
broad shoulders of the guides. Then snow-shoes were 
adjusted—skis for Geraldine; Miller walked westward 
and took post; Kemp’s huge bulk closed the eastern ex- 
tremity of the line, and between them, two and two at 
thirty paces apart, stood the hunters, Duane with Rosa- 
lie, Geraldine with Delancy, loading their magazines. 

Ahead was an open wood of second growth, birch, 
beech, and maple; sunlight lay in white splashes here 
and there; nothing except these blinding pools of light 
and the soft impression of a fallen twig varied the im- 
maculate snow surface as far as the eye could see. 

‘Forward and silence,”’ called out Geraldine; the 
mellow swish of snow-shoes answered her, and she glided 
forward on her skis, instructing Delancy under her 
breath. 

“The wind is right,” she said. ‘ They can’t scent 
us here, though deeper in the mountains the wind cuts 
up and you never can be sure what it may do. 
There’s just a chance of jumping a pig here, but 
there’s a better chance when we strike the alder coun- 
try. Try not to shoot a sow.” 

460 


CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 








* How am I to tell? ” 

** Sows have no tusks that show. Be careful not to 
mistake the white patches of snow on a sow’s jowl for 
tusks. They get them by rooting and it’s not always 
easy to tell.” 

Delancy said very honestly: “ You'll have to con- 
trol me; I’m likely to let drive at anything.” 

“ You’re more likely to forget to shoot until the 
pig is out of sight,” she whispered, laughing. ‘ Look! 
Three trails! They were made last night.” 

“ Boar?” 

* Yes,” she nodded, glancing at the deep cloven im- 
prints. She leaned forward and glanced across the line 
at Miller, who caught her eye and signalled signifi- 
cantly with one hand. 

“ Be ready, Delancy,” she whispered. ‘ There’s a 
boar somewhere ahead.” 

** How can you tell?” 

“TI can scent him. It’s strong enough in the 
wind,” she added, wrinkling her delicate nose with a 
smile. 

Grandcourt sniffed and sniffed, and finally detected 
a slight acrid odour in the light, clear breeze. He 
looked wisely around him; Geraldine was skirting a 
fallen tree on her skis; he started on and was just 
rounding a clump of brush when there came a light, 
crashing noise directly ahead of him; a big, dark, 
shaggy creature went bounding and bucking across his 
line of vision—a most extraordinary animal, all head 
and shoulders and big, furry ears. 

The snapping crack of a rifle echoed by the sharp 
racket of another shot aroused him to action too late, 
for Miller, knife drawn, was hastening across the snow 
toa distant dark, motionless heap; and Geraldine stood 
| 461 


THE DANGER MARK 








jerking back the ejector of her weapon and throwing a 
fresh cartridge into the breach. 

“My goodness!” he faltered, “ somebody got him! 
Who fired, Geraldine? ” 

She said: “I waited as long as I dared, Delancy. 
They go like lightning, you know. I’m terribly sorry 
you didn’t fire.” 

“Good girl! ” said Duane in a low voice as she sped 
by him on her skis, rifle ready for emergencies as old 
Miller cautiously approached the shaggy brown heap, 
knife glittering. 

But there was no emergency; Miller’s knife sank to 
the hilt; Geraldine uncocked her rifle and bent curi- 
ously over the dead boar. 

** Nice tusks, Miss Seagrave,” commented the old 
man. ‘“ He’s fat as butter, too. I cal’late he'll tip the 
beam at a hundred and forty paound!” 

The hunters clustered around with exclamations 
of admiration; Rosalie, distractingly pretty in her 
white wool kilts and cap, knelt down and touched 
the fierce, long-nosed head and stroked the furry 
jowl. 

“Oh, Delancy!” she wailed, “why didn’t you 
‘ plug’ him as you promised? J simply couldn’t shoot; 
Duane tried to make me, but I was so excited and so 


surprised to see the creature run so fast that all my 


ideas went out of my head and I never thought of pull- 
ing that wretched trigger!” 

“ That,” said Delancy, very red, “is precisely what 
happened to me.” And, turning to Geraldine, who 
looked dreadfully repentant: “I heard you tell me to 
shoot, and I merely gawked at the beast like a rubber- 
ing jay at a ten-cent show.” 

“ Everybody does that at first,” said Duane cheer- 

462 


ee ee ek oe 


RAMA ab ee is et lan 


CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 








fully ; “ I'll bet anything that you and Rosalie empty 
your magazines at the next one.” 

“ We really must, Delancy,” insisted Rosalie as she 
and Geraldine turned away when Miller and Kemp 
tucked up their sleeves and unsheathed their knives in 
preparation for unpleasant but necessary details. 

But they worked like lightning; and in exactly seven 
minutes the heavy beast was drawn, washed out with 
snow, roped, and hung to a tree well out of reach of 
any four-footed forest marauders that might prowl 
that way before night. 

Geraldine, smiling her deprecation of their praise, 
waited with the others until the two guides were ready. 
Then, in the same order as before, they moved forward, 
descended the slope, and came into a strange wilder- 
ness of stark gray alders that stretched away in every 
direction. And threading, circling, crossing each other 
everywhere among the alders ran the trails of deer and 
wild boar, deep and fresh in the powdery snow. 

At intervals, as they advanced, hard-wood ridges 
crossed the bewildering alder labyrinths. Twice, while 
ascending these ridges, Rosalie’s heart jumped as a 
grouse thundered up. Once three steel-gray deer 
started out of the scrub and went bounding off, dis- 
playing enormous white flags; once a young buck, hunt- 
ing for trouble, winded it, whistled, and came leaping 
past Rosalie so close that she shrank aside with a half- 
stifled cry of apprehension and delight. 

Half a mile farther on Delancy, labouring along on 
his snow-shoes, suddenly halted, detaining Geraldine 
with a quick touch on the shoulder. 

“There’s something in that clearing,’ he whis- 
pered. 

Miller had seen it, too; Duane motioned Rosalie for- 

463 


THE DANGER MARK 








ward to join Delancy, and, side by side, they crept 
ahead, keeping a clump of scrub hemlock between them 
and the edge of the clearing. It was the Green Pass 
feed-ground, a rocky strip of pasture climbing upward 
toward Lynx Peak; and there, clean cut against the 
snowy background, three dark objects were moving, 
trotting nervously here and there, nosing, nuzzling, 
tunnelling the snow with long, sharp muzzles. 

Duane and Geraldine silently unslung their field- 
glasses. 

* They’re boar,” he said. 

“‘ T'wo-year-olds,” she nodded. “I do hope they 
will get one each. Duane, ought I to have shot that 
other one? ” 

“Of course, you generous child! Otherwise he’d 
have gone clear away. That was a cracking shot, too 
—clean through the backbone at the base of the skull. 
. . « Look at Rosalie! She’s unstrapped her snow- 
shoes and she and Delancy are crawling on all-fours!” 

Kemp had now joined the stalkers; he was a wise 
old hunter, and Duane and Geraldine, keeping very 
still, watched the operations side by side. 

For half an hour Rosalie lay motionless in the 
snow on the forest’s edge, and Geraldine was’ be- 
ginning to fret at the prospect of her being too be- 
numbed by the cold to use her rifle, when Duane 
touched her on the arm and drew her attention to a 
fourth boar, . 

The animal came on from behind Rosalie and to 
Delancy’s right—a good-sized, very black fellow, evi- 
dently suspicious yet tempted to reconnoitre the feed- 
ing-ground. 

** Oh, dear, oh, dear!” she whispered ; “ what a shot 
Delancy has! Why doesn’t he see him! What on 

AGA 


CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 








earth is Kemp about? Why, the boar is within ten feet 
of Delancy’s legs and doesn’t see or wind him!” 

** Look! ” 

Kemp had caught sight of the fourth boar. Ger- 
aldine and Duane saw his dilemma, saw him silently give 
Rosalie the signal to fire at the nearest boar in the 
open, then saw him turn like a flash and almost drag 
Delancy to his feet. 

** Kill that pig, now!” he thundered—* unless you 
want him hackin’ your shins!” 

The boar stood in his tracks, bristling, furious, 
probably astounded to find himself so close to the only 
thing in all the forest that he feared and would have 
preferred to flee from. 

Under such conditions boars lose their heads; there 
was a sudden clatter of tusks, a muffled, indescribable 
sound, half squeal, half roar; a fountain of feathery 
snow, and two shots close together. Then a third shot. 

Rosalie, rather pale, threw another cartridge in as 
Delancy picked himself out of a snow-bank and looked 
around him in astonishment. 

‘Well done, young lady!” cried Kemp, running a 
fistful of snow over the blade of his hunting-knife and 
nodding his admiration. “I guess it’s just as well you 
disobeyed orders and let this funny pig have what was 
coming to him. Y?’ ain’t hurt, are ye, Mr. Grand- 
court? ” . 

“No; he didn’t hit me; I tripped on that root. Did 
I miss him? ” 

* Not at all,” said Duane, kneeling down while Mil- 
ler lifted the great fierce head. “ You hit him all right, 
but it didn’t stop him; it only turned him. Here’s your 
second bullet, too; and Rosalie, yours did the business 
for him. Good for you! It’s fine, isn’t it, Geraldine?.” 

465 


199 


THE DANGER MARK 








Grandcourt, flushing heavily, turned to Rosalie and 
held out his hand. ‘ Thank you,” he said; “ the brute 
was right on top of me.” 

“ Oh, no,” she said honestly, “ he’d missed you and 
was going straight on. I don’t know how on earth I 
ever hit him, but I was so frightened to see you go over 
backward and I thought that he’d knocked you down, 
and I was perfectly furious——” 

She gave a little sob of excitement, laughed un- 
steadily, and sat down on a fallen log, burying her face 
in her hands. 

They knew enough to let her alone and pretend not 
to notice her. Geraldine chattered away cheerfully to 
the two men while the keepers drew the game. Delancy 
tried to listen to her, but his anxious eyes kept turning 
toward Rosalie, and at length, unable to endure it, he 
went over and sat down beside her, careless of what 
others might infer. 

** How funny,” whispered Geraldine to Duane. “I 
had no idea that Delancy was so fond of her. Had 
you?” 

He started slightly. “I? Oh, no,” he said hastily 
—too hastily. He was a very poor actor. 

Gravely, head bent, she walked forward beside hina 
after Grandcourt had announced that he and Rosalie 
had had enough and that they wished Kemp to take 
them and their game to the sleigh. 

Once, looking back, she saw the procession moving 
in the opposite direction through the woods, Kemp 
leading, rope over his shoulder, dragging the dead boar 
across the snow; Grandcourt, both rifles slung across 
his back, big arm supporting Rosalie, who walked as 
though very tired, her bright head drooping, her arm 
resting on his shoulder. 


466 


CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 








Geraldine looked up at Duane thoughtfully, and he 
supposed that she was about to speak, but her gaze be- 
came remote; she shifted her rifle, and walked on. 

Before they came to the wild, shaggy country below 
Cloudy Mountain she said: 

“ T’ve been thinking it over, Duane. I can see in it 
nothing that can concern anybody except themselves. 
Can you?” 

“Not a thing, dear. ... Im sorry I suggested 
his coming. I knew about this, but I clean forgot it 
when I asked you to invite him.” 

“I remember, now, your consternation when you 
realised it,” she said, smiling. ‘* After all, Duane, if 
it is bound to happen, I don’t mind it happening 
here. . . . Poor, lonely little Rosalie! ... Im de- 
praved enough to be glad for her—if it is really to 
be so.” 

“I’m glad, too. . . . Only she ought to begin her 
action, I think. It’s more prudent and better taste.” 

“You said once that you had a contempt for 
divorce.” 

“TI never entertain the same opinion of anything 
two days in succession,” he said, smiling. ‘ When 
there is any one moral law that can justly cover every 
case which it is framed to govern, I’ll be glad to re- 
main more constant in my beliefs.” : 

“Then you do believe in divorce? ” 

* To-day I happen to.” 

* Duane, is that your attitude toward everything? ” 

“Everything except you,’ he said cheerfully. 
“That is literally true. Even in my painting and in 
my liking for the work of others, I veer about like a 
weather-vane, never holding very long to one point of 
view.” 


467 


THE DANGER MARK 








“ You’re very frank about it.” 

“Why not?” 

“ Isn’t it a—a weakness? ” 

“ T don’t think so,” he said so simply that she tucked 
her arm under his with a soft, confidential laugh. 

* You goose; do you suppose I think there is a weak 
fibre in you? I’ve always adored the strength in you 
—even when it was rough enough to bruise me. Lis- 
ten, dear; there’s only one thing you might possibly 
weaken on. Promise you won’t.” 

“TI promise.” 

“Then,” she said triumphantly, “ you’ll take first 
shot at the big boar! Are you angry because I 
made you promise? If you only knew, dear, how 
happy I have been, saving the best I had to offer, in 
this forest, for you! You will make me happy, won’t 
you?” 

“Of course I will, you little trump!” he said, en- 
circling her waist, forgetful of old Miller, plodding 
along behind them. 

But it was no secret to old Miller, nor to any native 
in the country-side for a radius of forty miles. No 
modern invention can equal the wireless celerity that 
distributes information concerning other people’s busi- 
ness throughout the rural wastes of this great and — 
sipping nation. 

She made him release her, blushing hotly as she re- 
membered that Miller was behind them, and she scolded 
her lover roundly, until later, in a moment of thought- 
lessness, she leaned close to his shoulder and told him 
she adored him with every breath she drew, which was 
no sillier than his reply. 

The long blue shadows on the snow and the pink 
bars of late sunlight had died out together. It had 

468 


CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 








grown warmer and grayer in the forest; and after a 
little one or two snow-flakes came sifting down through 
the trees. 

They had not jumped the big silver boar, nor had 
they found a trace of him among the trails that crossed 
and recrossed the silent reaches of the forest. Light 
was fading to the colourless, opaque gray which her- 
alded a snow-storm as they reached the feeding-ground, 
spread out their fur coats, and dropped, belly down, to 
reconnoitre. 

Nothing moved among the oaks. They lay listen- 
ing minute after minute; no significant sound broke the 
silence, no dead branch cracked in the hemlocks. 

She lay close to him for warmth, chin resting on his 
shoulder, her cheek against his. Their snow-shoes were 
stuck upright in a drift behind them; beside these 
squatted old Miller, listening, peering, nostrils working 
in the wind like an old dog’s. 

They waited and watched through a fine veil 
of snow descending; in the white silence there was not 
a sound save the silken flutter of a lonely chickadee, 
friendly, inquiring, dropping from twig to twig until 
its tiny bright eyes peered level with Geraldine’s. 

Evidently the great boar was not feeding before 
night. Duane turned his head restlessly; old Miller, 
too, had become impatient and they saw him prowling 
noiselessly down among the rocks, scrutinising snow 
and thickets, casting wise glances among the trees, 
shaking his white head as though communing with him- 
self. 

“Well, little girl,” breathed Duane, “it looks 
doubtful, doesn’t it? ” 

She turned on her side toward him, looking him in 
the eyes: 

469 


THE DANGER MARK 








* Does it matter? ” 

“No,” he said, smiling. 

She reached out her arms; they settled close around 
his neck, clung for a second’s passionate silence, re- 
leased him and covered her flushed face, all but the 
mouth. Under them his lips met hers. 

The next instant she was on her knees, pink-cheeked, 
alert, ears straining in the wind. 

“Miller is coming back very fast!” she whispered ° 
to her lover. “I believe he has good news!” 

Miller was coming fast, holding out in one hand 
something red and gray—something that dangled and 
flapped as he strode—something that looked horrible 
and raw. 

** Damn him!” said the old man fiercely, “no won- 
der he ain’t.a-feedin’! Look at this, Miss Seagrave. 
There’s more of it below—a hull mess of it in the 
snow.” 

“It’s a big strip of deer-hide—all raw and bleed- 
ing!” faltered the girl. ‘‘ What in the world has hap- 
pened? ” 

“ His work,” said Miller grimly. 

“ The—the big boar? ” 

“Yes’m. The deer yard over there. He sneaked 
in on ’em last night and this doe must have got stuck 
in a drift. And that devil caught her and pulled her 
down and tore her into bits. Why, the woods is all scat- 
tered with shreds o’ hide like this! I wish to God you 
or Mr. Mallett could get one crack at him! I do, by 
thunder! Yes’m!” 

But it was already too dusky among the trees to 
sight a rifle. In silence they strapped up the coats, 
fastened on snow-shoes, and moved out along the bare 
spur of the mountain, where there was still daylight in 


470 


CLOUDY MOUNTAIN 








the open, although the thickening snow made every- 
thing gray and vague. 

Here and there a spectral tree loomed up among the 
rocks ; a white hare’s track, paralleled by the big round 
imprints of a lynx, ran along the unseen path they fol- 
lowed as Miller guided them toward Westgate. 

Later, outlined in the white waste, ancient apple- 
trees appeared, gnarled relics of some long-abandoned 
clearing ; and, as they passed, Duane chanced to glance 
across the rocks to the left. 

At first he thought he saw something move, but be- 
gan to make up his mind that he was deceived. 

Noticing that he had halted, Geraldine came back, 
and then Miller returned to where he stood, squinting 
through the falling flakes in the vague landscape be- 
yond. 

“It moved; I seen it,” whispered Miller hoarsely. 

“It’s a deer,” motioned Geraldine; “ it’s too big 
for anything else.” 

For five minutes in perfect silence they watched the 
gray, flat forms of scrub and rock; and Duane was be- 
ginning to lose faith in everybody’s eyes when, without 
warning, a huge, colourless shape detached itself from 
the flat silhouettes and moved leisurely out into the 
open. : 

There was no need to speak; trembling slightly, he 
cleared his rifle sight of snow, steadied his nerves, raised 
the weapon, and fired. 

A horrid sort of scream answered the shot ; the boar 
lurched off among the rocks, and after him at top speed 
ran Duane and Miller, while Geraldine, on swift skis, 
sped eastward like the wind to block retreat to the 
mountain. She heard Duane’s rifle crack again, then 
again; heard a heavy rush in the thicket in front of 

31 471 


THE DANGER MARK 








her, lifted her rifle, fired, was hurled sideways on the 
rocks, and knew no more until she unclosed her bewil- 
dered eyes in her lover’s arms. 

A sharp pain shot through her; she gasped, turned 
very white, and lay with wide eyes and parted lips star- 
ing at Duane. 

Suddenly a penetrating aroma filled her lungs ; with 
all her strength she pushed away the flask at her lips. 
“No! No! Not that! I will not, Duane!” 

“Dear,” he said unsteadily, “ you are very badly 
hurt. We are trying to carry you back. You must 
let me give you this si 

“No,” she sobbed, “I will not! Duane—I—” 
Pain made her faint; her grasp on his arm tightened 
convulsively ; with a supreme effort she struck the flask 
out of his hand and dropped back unconscious. 





CHAPTER XXIII 
SINE DIE 


THE message ran: “ My sister badly hurt in an ac- 
cident ; concussion, intermittent consciousness. We fear 
spinal and internal injury. What train can you 
catch? Scott SEaGRAvE.” 


Which telegram to Josiah Bailey, M.D., started that 
eminent general practitioner toward Roya-Neh in com- 
pany with young Dr. Goss, a surgeon whose brilliancy 
and skill did not interfere with his self-restraint when 
there were two ways of doing things. 

They were to meet in an hour at the 5.07 train; 
but before Dr. Bailey set out for the rendezvous, and 
while his man was still packing his suit-case, the phy- 
sician returned to his office, where a patient waited, 
head hanging, picking nervously at his fingers, his 
prominent, watery eyes fixed on vacancy. 

The young man neither looked up nor stirred when 
the doctor entered and reseated himself, picking up a 
pencil and pad. He thought a moment, squinted 
through his glasses, and continued writing the pre- 
scription which the receipt of the telegram from Roya- 
Neh had interrupted. 

When he had finished he glanced over the slip of 
paper, removed his gold-rimmed reading spectacles, 
folded them, balanced them thoughtfully in the palm of 

473 


THE DANGER MARK 








his large and healthy hand, considering the young fel- 
low before him with grave, far-sighted eyes: 

“ Stuyvesant,” he said, “this prescription is not 
going to cure you. No medicine that I can give you is 
going to perform any such miracle unless you help 
yourself, Nothing on earth that man has invented, or 
is likely to invent, can cure your disease unless by God’s 
grace the patient pitches in and helps himself. Is that 
plain talk? ” 

Quest nodded and reached shakily for the prescrip- 
tion; but the doctor withheld it. 

“You asked for plain talk; are you listening to 
what I’m saying? ” 

“Oh, hell, yes,” burst out Quest; “I’m going to 
pull myself together. Didn’t I tell you I would? But 
I’ve got to get a starter first, haven’t I? I’ve got to 
have something to key me up first. ITve explained to 
you that it’s this crawling, squirming movement on the 
backs of my hands that I can’t stand for. I want it 
stopped; I’ll take anything you dope out; Ill do any 
turn you call for 3 

“Very well. I’ve told you to go to Mulqueen’s. 
Go now!” 

“ All right, doctor. Only they’re too damn rough 
with a man. All right; Pll go. I did go last win- 
ter, and look where I am now!” he snarled suddenly. 
“Have I got to get up against all that business 
again? ” 

‘* You came out in perfectly good shape. It was 
up to you,” said the doctor, coldly using the ver- 
nacular. 

“ How was it up to me? You all say that! How 
was it?_ I understood that if I cut it out and went up 
there and let that iron-fisted Irishman slam me around, 

474 





SINE DIE 








that I’d come out all right. And the first little baby- 
drink I hit began the whole thing again!” 

“Why did you take it? You didn’t have to.” 

“TI wanted it,” retorted Quest angrily. 

* Not badly enough to make self-control impossible. 
That’s what you went up there for, to get back self- 
control. You got it but didn’t use it. Do you think 
there is any sort of magic serum Mulqueen or I or 
anybody under Heaven can pump into you that will 
render you immune from the consequences of making 
an alcohol sewer of yourself? ” 

“TI certainly supposed I could come out and drink 
like a gentleman,” said the young man sullenly. 

“Drink like a—what? A gentleman? What’s 
that? What’s drinking like a gentleman? I don’t 
know what it is. You either drink alcohol or you don’t; 
you either swill it or you don’t. Anybody can do 
either. I’m not aware that either is peculiar to a gentle- 
man. But I know that both are peculiar to fools.” 

Quest muttered, picking his fingers, and cast an 
ugly side look at the physician. 

“I don’t know what you just said,” snapped Dr. 
Bailey, “ but T’ll tell you this: alcohol is poison and it 
has not—and never had—in any guise whatever, the 
slightest compensating value for internal use. It isn’t 
a food; it’s a poison; it isn’t a beneficial stimulant; it’s 
a poison; it isn’t an aid to digestion; it’s a poison; it 
isn’t a life saver; it’s a life taker. It’s a parasite, 
forger, thief, pander, liar, brutalizer, murderer! 

** Those are the plain facts. There isn’t, and there 
never has been, one word to say for it or any excuse, 
except morbid predisposition or self-inculcated inclina- 
tion, to offer for swallowing it. Now go to your 
brewers, your wine merchants, your champagne touts, 

475 


THE DANGER MARK 








your fool undergraduates, your clubmen, your guzzling 
viveurs—and they’ll all tell you the contrary. So will 
some physicians. And you can take your choice. Any 
ass can. That is all, my boy.” 

The young man glowered sulkily at the prescrip- 
tion. 

“Do I understand that this will stop the jumps? ” 

“If you really believe that, you have never heard 
me say so,” snapped Dr. Bailey. 

** Well, what the devil will it do? ” 

“‘ The directions are there. You have my memoran- 
dum of the régime you are to follow. It will quiet you 
till you get to Mulqueen’s. Those two bits of paper, 
however, are useless unless you help yourself. If you 
want to become convalescent you can—eyen yet. It 
won’t be easy ; it will hurt; but you can do it, as I say, 
even yet. But it is you who must do it, not I or that 
bit of paper or Mulqueen! 

‘“* Just now you happen to want to get well because 
the effect of alcohol poison disturbs you. Things crawl, 
as you say, on the back of your hand. Naturally, you 
don’t care for such phenomena. 

“* Well, I’ve given you the key to mental and physi- 
cal regeneration. Yours is not an inherited appetite; 
yours is not one of those almost foredoomed and piti- 
able eases. It’s a stupid case; and a case of gross self- 
indulgence in stupidity that began in idleness. And 
that, my son, is the truth.” 

“Ts that so? ” sneered Quest, rising and pocketing 
the prescription. 

“Yes, it is so. Tve known your family for forty 
years, Stuyvesant. I knew your parents; I exonerate 
them absolutely. Sheer laziness and wilful depravity 
is what has brought you here to me on this errand. You 


476 


SINE DIE 








deliberately acquired a taste for intoxicants; you 
haven’t one excuse, one mitigating plea to offer for 
what you’ve done to yourself. 

“You stood high in school and in college; you were 
Phi Beta Kappa, a convincing debater, a plausible 
speaker, an excellent writer of good English—by in- 
stinct a good newspaper man. Also you were a man 
adapted by nature to live regularly and beyond the 
coarser temptations. But you were lazy!” 

Dr. Bailey struck his desk in emphasis. 

“ The germ of your self-indulgence lay in gross self- 
ishness. You did what pleased you; and it suited you 
to do nothing. I’m telling you how you’ve betrayed 
yourself—how far you'll have to climb to win back. 
Some men need a jab with a knife to start their pride; 
some require a friend’s strong helping arm around 
them. You need the jab. I’m trying to administer it 
without anesthetics, by tellmg you what some men 
think of you—that it is your monstrous selfishness that 
has distorted your normal common sense and landed 
you where you are. 

_ “ Selfishness alone has resulted in a most cruel and 
unnatural neglect of your sister—your only living rela- 
tive—in a deliberate relapse into slothful and vicious 
habits ; in neglect of a most promising career which was 
already yours; in a contemptible willingness to live on 
your sister’s income after gambling away your own 
fortune. 

“I know you; I carried you through teething and 
measles, my son; and I’ve carried you through the hor- 
rors of alcoholic delirium. And I say to you now that, 
with the mental degeneration already apparent, and 
your naturally quick temper, if you break down a few 
more cells in that martyred brain of yours, you'll end 


477 


THE DANGER MARK 








in an asylum—possibly one reserved for the criminal 
insane.” 

A dull colour stained the pasty whiteness of Quest’s 
face. For several minutes he stood there, his fingers 
working and picking at each other, his pale, prominent 
eyes glaring. 

“That’s a big indictment, doctor,” he said at last. 

‘Thank God you think it so,” returned the doctor. 
“Tf you will stand by your better self for one week— 
for only one week—after leaving Mulqueen’s, Ill stand 
by you for life, my boy. Come! You were a good 
sport once. And that little sister of yours is worth it. 
Come, Stuyvesant; is it a bargain? ” 

He stepped forward and held out his large, firm, 
reassuring hand. The young fellow took it limply. 

“Done with you, doctor,” he said without convic- 
tion ; “it’s hell for mine, I suppose, if I don’t make my 
face behave. You’re right; I’m the goat; and if I don’t 
quit butting I’ll sure end by slapping some sissy citi- 
zen with an axe.” 

He gave the doctor’s hand a perfunctory shake with 
his thin, damp fingers; dropped it, turned to go, halted, 
retraced his steps. 

** Will it give me the willies if I kiss a cocktail 
good-bye before I start for that fresh guy, Mul- 
queen? ” 

“ Start now, I tell you! Haven’t I your word? ” 

“* Yes—but on the way to buy transportation can’t 
I offer myself one last 

* Can’t you be a good sport, Stuyve? ” 

The youth hesitated, scowled. 

* Oh, very well,” he said carelessly, turned and went 
out. 

As he walked along in the slush he said to himself: 

478 





SINE DIE 








“TI guess it’s up the river for mine. . . . By God, it’s 
a shame, for I’m feeling pretty good, too, and that’s 
no idle quip! . . . Old Squills handed out a line of talk 
all right-o! .. . He landed it, too. ...I ought to 
find something to do.” 

As he walked, a faint glow stimulated his enervated 
intelligence; ideas, projects long abandoned, desires 
forgotten, even a far echo from the old ambition stir- 
ring in its slumber, quickened his slow pulses. The 
ghost of what he might have been, nay, what he could 
have made himself, rose wavering in his path. Other 
ghosts, long laid, floated beside him, accompanying him 
—the ghosts of dead opportunities, dead ideals, lofty 
inspirations long, long strangled. 

“A job,” he muttered; “ that’s the wholesome dope 
for Willy. There isn’t a newspaper or magazine in town 
where I can’t get next if I speak easy. I can deliver 
the goods, too; it’s like wiping swipes off a bar. e 

In his abstraction he had walked into the Holland 
House, and he suddenly became conscious that he was 
confronting a familiarly respectful bartender. 

“Oh, hell,” he said, greatly disconcerted, “I want 
some French vichy, Gus!” He made a wry face, and 
added: ** Put a dash of tabasco in it, and salt it.” 

A thick-lipped, ruddy-cheeked young fellow, cele- 
brated for his knowledge of horses, also notorious for 
other and less desirable characteristics, stood leaning 
against the bar, watching him. 

They nodded civilly to one another. Quest swal- 
lowed his peppered vichy, pulled a long face and said: 

“We're a pair of ’em, all right.” 

“Pair of what?” inquired the thick-lipped young 
man, face becoming rosier and looking more than ever 
like somebody’s groom. 

82 479 





THE DANGER MARK 








“ Pair of bum whips. We’ve laid on the lash too 
hard. I’m going to stable my five nags—my five 
wits! he explained with a sneer as the other re- 
garded him with all the bovine intelligence of one of his 
own. stable-boys—“ because they’re foundered; and 
that’s the why, young four-in-hand! ” 

He left the bar, adding as he passed: 

“T’m a rotting citizen, but you ”—he laughed inso- 
lently—** you have become phosphorescent! ” 

The street outside was all fog and melting snow; 
the cold vichy he had gulped made him internally un- 
comfortable. 

* A gay day to go to Mulqueen’s,” he muttered 
sourly, gazing about for a taxicab. 

There was none for hire at that moment; he walked 
on for a while, feeling the freezing slush penetrate his 
boot-soles; and by degrees a sullen temper rose within 
him, revolting—not at what he had done to himself— 
but at the consequences which were becoming more un- 
pleasant every moment. 

As he trudged along, slipping, sliding, his over- 
coat turned up around his pasty face, his cheeks wet 
with the icy fog, he continued swearing to himself, at 
himself, at the slush, the cold vichy in his belly, the 
appetite already awakened which must be denied. 

Denied? . . . Was he never to have one more de- 
cent drink? Was this to be the absolute and final end? 
Certainly. Yet his imagination could not really com- 
prehend, compass, picture to himself life made a nui- 
sance by self-denial—life in any other guise except as 
a background for inertia and indulgence. 

He swore again, profanely asking something occult 
why he should be singled out to be made miserable on 
a day like this? Why, among all the men he knew, he 

480 


SINE DIE 








must go skulking about, lapping up cold mineral water 
and cocking one ear to the sounds of human revelry 
within the Tavern. 

As for his work—yes, he ought to do it... . In- 
terest in it was already colder; the flare-up was dying 
down; habitual apathy chilled it to its embers. Indif- 
ference, ill-temper, self-pity, resentment, these were the 
steps he was slowly taking backward. He took them, in 
their natural sequence, one by one. 

Old Squills meant well, no doubt, but he had been 
damned impertinent... . And why had Old Squills 
dragged in his sister, Sylvia? ... He had paid as 
much attention to her as any brother does to any sis- 
ter. . . . And how had she repaid him? 

Head lowered doggedly against the sleet which 
was now falling thickly, he shouldered his way for- 
ward, brooding on his “honour,” on his sister, on 
Dysart. 

He had not been home in weeks; he did not know 
of his sister’s departure with Bunny Gray. She had 
left a letter at home for him, because she knew no other 
addresses except his clubs; and inquiry over the tele- 
phone elicited the information that he had not been to 
any of them. 

But he was going to one of them now. He needed 
something to kill that vichy; he’d have one more hon- 
est drink in spite of all the Old Squills and Mulqueens 
in North America! 

At the Cataract Club there were three fashion- 
haunting young men drinking hot Scotches: Dumont, 
his empurpled skin distended with whiskey and late sup- 
pers, and all his former brilliancy and wit cankered and 
rotten with it, and his slim figure and clean-cut face 
fattened and flabby with it; Myron Kelter, thin, ele- 

481 


THE DANGER MARK 








gant, exaggerated, talking eternally about women and 
his successes with the frailer ones—Myron Kelter, son of 
a gentleman, eking out his meagre income by fetching, . 
carrying, pandering to the rich, who were too fastidious 
to do what they paid him for doing in their behalf; 
and the third, Forbes Winton, literary dilettante, large 
in every feature and in waistcoat and in gesture—large, 
hard, smooth—very smooth, and worth too many mil- 
lions to be contradicted when misstating facts to suit 
the colour of his too luxuriant imagination. 

These greeted Quest in their several and fashion- 
ably wearied manners, inviting his soul to loaf. 

Later he had a slight dispute with Winton, who sur- 
veyed him coldly, and insolently repeated his former 
misstatement of a notorious fact. 

“What rot!” said Quest; “I leave it to you, Kel- 
ter; am I right or not?” 

Kelter began a soft and soothing discourse which 
led nowhere at first but ended finally in a re-order for 
four hot Scotches. 

Then Dumont’s witty French blood—or the muddied 
dregs which were left of it—began to be perversely 
amusing at Quest’s expense. Epigrams slightly frayed, 
a jest or two a trifle stale, humorous inversions of well- 
known maxims, a biting retort, the originality of which 
was not entirely free from suspicion, were his contribu- 
tions to the festivities. 

Later Kelter’s nicely modulated voice and almost 
affectionate manner restrained Quest from hurling his 
glass at the inflamed countenance of Mr. Dumont. 
But it did not prevent him from leaving the room 
in a vicious temper, and, ultimately, the Cataract 
Club. 

The early winter night had turned cold and clear; 

482 


SINE DIE 








sidewalks glittered, sheeted with ice. He inhaled a deep 
breath and expelled a reeking one, hailed a cab, and 
drove to the railroad station. 

Here he bought his tickets, choosing a midnight 
train; for the journey to Mulqueen’s was not a very 
long one; he could sleep till seven in the car; and, be- 
sides, he had his luggage to collect from the hotel he 
had been casually inhabiting. Also he had not yet 
dined. 

Bodily he felt better, now that the vichy had been 
“killed *; mentally his temper became more vicious 
than ever as he thought of Dumont’s blunted wit at his 
expense—a wit with edge enough left to make a ragged, 
nasty wound. 

* He'll get what’s coming to him some day,” snarled 
Quest, returning to his cab; and he bade the driver take 
him to the Amphitheatre, a restaurant resort, wonder- 
ful in terra-cotta rocks, papier-maché grottos, and Cro- 
ton waterfalls—haunted of certain semi-distinguished 
pushers of polite professions, among whom he had been 
known for years. 

The place was one vast eruption of tiny electric 
lights, and the lights of “the profession,” and the 
demi-monde. Virtue and its antithesis disguised alike 
in silk attire and pearl collars, rubbed elbows uncon- 
cernedly among the papier-maché grottos; the cascades 
foamed with municipal water, waiters sweated and scur- 
ried, lights winked and glimmered, and the music and 
electric fans annoyed nobody. 

In its usual grotto Quest found the usual group, 
was welcomed automatically, sat down at one of the 
tables, and gave his order. 

Artists, newspaper men, critics, and writers predom- 
inated. There was also a “ journalist ” doing “ bril- 

483 


THE DANGER MARK 








liant ” space work on the Sun. He had been doing it 
nearly a month and he was only twenty-one. It was his 
first job. Ambition tickled his ribs; Fame leaned fa- 
miliarly over his shoulder; Destiny made eyes at him. 
His name was Bunn. 

There was also a smooth-shaven, tired-eyed, little 
man who had written a volume on Welsh-rarebits and 
now drew cartoons. His function was to torment 
Bunn; and Bunn never knew it. 

A critic rose from the busy company and departed, 
to add lustre to his paper and a nail in the coffin of the 
only really clever play in town. 

* Kismet,” observed little Dill, who did the daily 
cartoon for the Post, “no critic would be a critic if 
he could be a fifth-rate anybody else—or,” he added, 
looking at Bunn, “ even a journalist.” 

“Ts that supposed to be funny?” asked Bunn com- 
placently. “J intend to do art criticism for the 
Herald.” 

** What’s the objection to my getting a job on it, 
too? ” inquired Quest, setting his empty glass aside and 
signalling the waiter for a re-order. He expected sur- 
prise and congratulation. 

Somebody said, * You take a job!” so impudently 
that Quest reddened and turned, showing his narrow, 
defective teeth. 

“It’s my choice that I haven’t taken one,” he 
snarled. ‘ Did you think otherwise? ” 

“Don’t get huffy, Stuyve,” said a large, placid, 
fat novelist, whose financial success with mediocre fic- 
tion had made him no warmer favourite among his 
brothers. 

A row of artists glanced up and coldly continued 
their salad, their Vandyck beards all wagging in unison. 

48.4 


SINE DIE 








“T want you to understand,” said Quest, leaning 
both elbows offensively on Dill’s table, “ that the job I 
ask for I expect to get.” : 

“You might have expected that once,” said the 
cool young man who had spoken before. 

** And I do now!” retorted Quest, raising his voice. 
“Why not?” 

Somebody said: “ You can furnish good copy, all 
right, Quest; you do it every day that you’re not 
working.” 

Quest, astonished and taken aback at such a uni- 
versal revelation of the contempt in which he seemed to 
be held, found no reply ready—nothing at hand except 
another glass of whiskey and soda. 

Minute after minute he sat there among them, sul- 
len, silent, wincing, nursing his chagrin in deepening 
wrath and bitterness; and his clouding mind perceived 
in the rebuke nothing that he had ever done to de- 
serve it. 

Who the devil were these rag-tags and bob-tails of 
the world who presumed to snub him—these restau- 
rant-haunting outsiders, among whom he condescended 
to sit, feeling always the subtle flattery they ought to 
accord him by virtue of a social position hopeless of 
attainment by any of them? 

Who were they to turn on him like this when he had 
every reason to suppose they were not only aware of the 
great talent he had carelessly neglected to cultivate 
through all these years, but must, in the secret recesses 
of their grubby souls, reluctantly admire his disdain of 
the only distinctions they scrambled for and could ever 
hope for? 

His black looks seemed to disturb nobody ; Bum 
self-centred, cropped his salad complacently; the Van- 

485 


THE DANGER MARK 








dyck beards wagged; another critic or two left, stern 
slaves to duty and paid ads. 


The lights bothered him; tremors crawled over and 
over his skin; within him a dull rage was burning—a 
rage directed at no one thing, but which could at any 
moment be focussed. 

Men rose and left the table singly, by twos, in 
groups. He sat, glowering, head partly averted, 
scowlingly aware of their going, aware of their 
human interest in one another but not in him, aware 
at last that he counted for nothing whatever among 
them. 

Some spoke to him as they passed out; he made them 
no answer. And at last he was alone. 

Reaching for his empty glass, he miscalculated the 
distance between it and his quivering fingers; it fell and 
broke to pieces. When the waiter came he cursed 
him, flung a bill at him, got up, demanded his coat and 
hat, swore at the pallid, little, button-covered page who 
brought it, and lurched out into the street. 

A cab stood there; he entered it, fell heavily into a 
corner of the seat, bade the driver, “ Keep going, damn 
you!” and sat swaying, muttering, brooding on the 
wrongs that the world had done him. 

‘Wrongs! Yes, by God! Every hand was against 
him, every tongue slandered him. Who was he that he 
should endure it any longer in patience! Had he not 
been patient? Had he not submitted to the insults of 
a fool of a doctor?—had he not stayed his hand from 
punishing Dumont’s red and distended face?—had he 
not silently accepted the insolent retorts of these Grub 
Street literati who turned on him and flouted the talent 
that lay dormant in him—dead, perhaps—but dead or 

486 


SINE DIE 








dormant, it still matched theirs! And they knew it, 
damn them! 

Had he not stood enough from the rotten world?— 
from his own sister, who had flung his honour into his 
face with impunity!—from Dysart, whose maddening 
and continual ignoring of his letters demanding an ex- 
planation 

There seemed to come a sudden flash in his brain; 
he leaned from the window and shouted an address to 
the cabman. His hat had fallen beside him, but he did 
not notice its absence on his fevered head. 

“ll begin with him!” he repeated with a thick 
laugh; “ I'll settle with him first. Now we’re going to 
see! Now we’ll find out about several matters—or I'll 
break his neck off !—or I'll twist it off—wring it off!” 

And he beat on his knees with his fists, railing, rag- 
ing, talking incoherently, laughing sometimes, some- 
times listening, as though, suddenly, near him, a voice 
was mocking him. ~ 

He had a pocket full of bills, crushed up; some he 
gave to the cabman, some he dropped as he stuffed the 
others into his pockets, stumbled toward a bronze-and- 
glass grille, and rang. The cabman brought him his 
hat, put it on him, gathered up the dropped money, and 
drove off with his tongue in his cheek. 

Quest rang again; the door opened; he gave his 
card to the servant, and stealthily followed him up- 
stairs over the velvet carpet. 

Dysart, in a velvet dressing-gown knotted in close 
about his waist, looked over the servant’s shoulders and 
saw Quest standing there in the hall, leering at him. 

For a moment nobody spoke; Dysart took the of- 
fered card mechanically, glanced at it, looked at Quest, 
and nodded dismissal to the servant. 

487 





THE DANGER MARK 








When he and the other man stood alone, he said in 
a low, uncertain voice: 

“Get out of here!” 

But Quest pushed past him into the lighted room 
beyond, and Dysart followed, very pale. 

** What are you doing here? ” he demanded. 

“T’ve asked you questions, too,” retorted Quest. 
** Answer mine first.” 

“Will you get out of here?” 

* Not until I take my answer with me.” 

* You’re drunk!” 

**T know it. Look out!” 

Dysart moistened his bloodless lips. 

* What do you want to know?” And, as Quest 
shouted a question at him: “ Keep quiet! Speak lower, 
I tell you. My father is in the next room.” 

** What in hell do I care for your father? ‘Answer 
me or I’ll choke it out of you! Answer me now, you 
dancing blackguard! I’ve got you; I want my answer, 
and you’ve got to give it to me!” 

“If you don’t lower your voice,” said Dysart be- 
tween his teeth, “ T’ll throw you out of that window! ” 

“Lower my voice? Why? Because the old fox 
might hear the young one yap! What do I care for 
you or your doddering family re 

He went down with a sharp crash; Dysart struck 
him again as he rose; then, beside himself, rained blows 
on him, drove him from corner to corner, out of the 
room, into the hall, striking him in the face till the 
young fellow reeled and fell against the bath-room door. 
It gave; he stumbled into darkness; and after him 
sprang Dysart, teeth set—sprang into the darkness 
which split before him with a roar into a million splin- 
ters of fire. 





488 


SINE DIE 








He stood for a second swaying, reaching out to 
grasp at nothing in a patient, persistent, meaningless 
way ; then he fell backward, striking a terrified servant, 
who shrank away and screamed as the light fell on her 
apron and cuffs all streaked with blood. 

She screamed again as a young man’s white and 
battered face appeared in the dark doorway before her. 

“Is he hurt?” he asked. His dilated eyes were 
fixed upon the thing on the floor. ‘“ What are you 
howling for? Is he—dead?” whispered Quest. Sud- 
denly terror overwhelmed him. 

“Get out of my way!” he yelled, hurling the 
shrieking maid aside, striking the frightened butler who 
tried to seize him on the stairs. There was another man- 
servant at the door, who stood his ground swinging a 
bronze statuette. Quest darted into the drawing-room, 
ran through the music-room and dining-room beyond, 
and slammed the door of the butler’s pantry. 

He stood there panting, glaring, his shoulder set 
against the door; then he saw a bolt, and shot it, and 
backed away, pistol swinging in his bleeding fist. 

Servants were screaming somewhere in the house; 
doors slammed, a man was shouting through a tele- 
phone amid a confusion of voices that swelled continu- 
ally until the four walls rang with the uproar. A little 
later a policeman ran through the basement into the 
yard beyond; another pushed his way to the pantry 
door and struck it heavily with his night-stick, demand- 
ing admittance. 

For a second he waited; then the reply came, 
abrupt, deafening; and he hurled himself at the bolted 
door, and it flew wide open. 

But Quest remained uninterested. Nothing con- 
cerned him now, lying there on his back, his bruised 

489 


THE DANGER MARK 








young face toward the ceiling, and every earthly ques- 
tion answered for him as long as time shall last. 


Up-stairs a very old and shrunken man sat shiver- 
ing in bed, staring vacantly at some policemen and 
making feeble efforts to reach a wig hanging from a 
chair beside him—a very glossy, expensive wig, nicely 
curled where it was intended to fall above the ears. 

“TI don’t know,” he quavered, smirking at every- 
body with crackled, painted lips, “I know nothing 
whatever about this affair. You must ask my son Jack, 
gentlemen—my son Jack—te-he!—oh, yes, he knows; 
he can tell you a thing or two, I warrant you! Yes, 
gentlemen, he’s like all the Dysarts—fit for a fight or 
a frolic!—te-he!—he’s all Dysart, gentlemen—my son 
Jack. But he is a good son to me—yes, yes!—a good 
son, a good son! Tell him I said so—and—good- 
night.” 

“ Nutty,” whispered a policeman. ‘“ Come on out 
o’ this boodwar and lave th’ ould wan be.” 

And they left him smirking, smiling, twitching his 
faded lips, and making vague sounds, lying there asleep 
in his dotage. 

And all night long he lay mumbling his gums and 
smiling, his sleep undisturbed by the stir and lights and 
tramp of feet around him. 

And all night long in the next room lay his son, 
white as marble and very still. 

Toward morning he spoke, asking for his father. 
But they had decided to probe for the bullet, and he 
closed his eyes wearily and spoke no more. 

They found it. What Dysart found as the winter 
sun rose over Manhattan town, his Maker only knows, 
for his sunken eyes opened unterrified yet infinitely sad. 

490 


SINE DIE 








But there was a vague smile on his lips after he lay 
there dead. 

Nor did his slayer lie less serenely where bars of 
sunlight moved behind the lowered curtains, calm as a 
schoolboy sleeping peacefully after the eternity of a 
summer day where he had played too long and fiercely 
with a world too rough for him. 

And so, at last, the indictments were dismissed 
against them both and their cases adjourned sine die. 


CHAPTER XXIV 
THE PROLOGUE ENDS 


“Your sister,” observed Dr. Bailey to Scott Sea- 
grave, “ must be constructed of India-rubber. ‘There’s 
nothing whatever the matter with her spine or with her 
interior. The slight trace of concussion is disappear- 
ing; there’s no injury to the skull; nothing serious to 
apprehend. Her body will probably be black and blue 
for a week or two; she’ll doubtless prefer to remain in 
bed to-morrow and next day. And that is the worst 
news I have to tell you.” 

He smiled at Kathleen and Duane, who stood to- 
gether, listening. 

“TI told you so,” said Scott, intensely relieved. 
“Duane got scared and made me send that telegram. 
I fell out of a tree once, and my sister’s symptoms were 
exactly like mine.” 

Kathleen stole silently from the room; Duane 
passed his arm through the doctor’s and walked with 
him to the big, double sleigh which was waiting. Scott 
followed with Dr. Goss. 7 

* About this other matter,” said Dr. Bailey; “I 
can’t make it out, Duane. I saw Jack Dysart two days 
ago. He was very nervous, but physically sound. I 
can’t believe it was suicide.” — 

He unfolded the telegram which had come that 
morning directed to Duane. 

492 


THE PROLOGUE ENDS 








“Mrs. Jack Dysart’s husband died this morning. 
Am trying to communicate with her. Wire if you know 
her whereabouts.” 


It was signed with old Mr. Dysart’s name, but Dr. 
Bailey knew he could never have written the telegram 
or even have comprehended it. 

The men stood grouped in the snow near the sleigh, 
waiting ; and presently Rosalie came out on the terrace 
with Kathleen and Delancy Grandcourt. Her colour 
was very bad and there were heavy circles under her 
eyes, but she cpoke with perfect self-possession, made 
her adieux quietly, kissed Kathleen twice, and suffered 
Grandcourt to help her into the sleigh. 

Then Grandcourt got in beside her, the two doctors 
swung aboard in front, bells jingled, and they whirled 
away over the snow. 

Kathleen, with Scott and Duane on either side of 
her, walked back to the house. 

* Well,” said Scott, his voice betraying nervous re- 
action, “* we’ll resume life where we left off when Ger- 
aldine did. Don’t tell her anything about Dysart yet. 
Suppose we go and cheer her up!” 

Geraldine lay on the pillows, rather pallid under the 
dark masses of hair clustering around and framing her 
face. She unclosed her eyes when Kathleen opened the 
door for a preliminary survey, and the others filed sol- 
emnly in. 

“ Hello,” she said faintly, and smiled at Duane. 

“ How goes it, Sis?” asked her brother affection- 
ately, shouldering Duane aside. 

* A little sleepy, but all right. Why on earth 
did you send for Dr. Bailey? It was horribly ex- 
pensive.” 


493 


THE DANGER MARK 








** Duane did,” said her brother briefly. ‘“‘ He was 
scared blue.” 

Her eyes rested on her lover, indulgent, dreamily 
humorous. 

“Such expensive habits,” she murmured, “ when 
everybody is economising. Kathleen, dear, he needs 
schooling. You and Mr. Tappan ought to take him in 
hand and cultiwate him good and hard!” 

Scott, who had been wandering around his sister’s 
room with innate masculine curiosity concerning the 
mysteries of intimate femininity, came upon a sketch 
of Duane’s—the colour not entirely dry yet. 

“It’s Sis!” he exclaimed in unfeigned approval. 
“Lord, but you’ve made her a good-looker, Duane. 
Does she really appear like that to you? ” 

“ And then some,” said Duane. “ Keep your fin- 
gers off it.” 

Scott admired in silence for a while, then: “ You 
certainly are a shark at it, Duane. . . . You’ve struck 
your gait all right. ...I1 wish I had.... This 
Rose-beetle business doesn’t promise very well.” 

** You write most interestingly about it,” said Kath- 
leen warmly. 

“Yes, I can write. . . . I believe journalism would 
suit me.” 

“The funny column? ” suggested Geraldine. 

“Yes, or the birth, marriage, and death column. I 
could head it, ‘ Hatched, Matched, and Snatched ’ 4 

“ That is perfectly horrid, Scott,” protested his sis- 
ter; “ why do you let him say such rowdy things, Kath- 
leen? ” 

“T can’t help it,” sighed Kathleen; “I haven’t the 
slightest influence with him. Look at him now! ”—as 
he laughingly passed his arm around her and made her 

494 





THE PROLOGUE ENDS 








two-step around the room, protesting, rosy, deliciously 
helpless in the arms of this tall young fellow who held 
her inflexibly but with a tenderness surprising. 

Duane smiled and seated himself on the edge of 
the bed. 

“You plucky little thing,” he said, “ were you per- 
fectly mad to try to block that boar in the scrub? You 
won’t ever try such a thing again, will you, dear? ” 

“IT was so excited, Duane; I never thought there 
was any danger 4s 

“You didn’t think whether there was or not. You 
didn’t care.” 

She laughed, wincing under his accusing gaze. 

“You must care, dear.” 

“IT do,” she said, serious when he became so grave. 
“Tell me again exactly what happened.” 

He said: “ I don’t think the brute saw you; he was 
hard hit and was going blind, and he side-swiped you 
and sent you flying into the air among those icy 
rocks.” He drew a long breath, managed to smile in 
response to her light touch on his hand. “ And that’s 
how it was, dear. He crashed headlong into a tree; 
your last shot did it. But Miller and I thought he’d 
got you. We carried you in 

“You did?” she whispered. 

“Yes. I never was so thoroughly scared in all my 
life.” 

“You poor boy. Are the rifles safe? And did 
Miller save the head? ” 

“ He did,” said Duane grimly, “and your precious 
rifles are intact.” 

“Lean down, close,” she said; “closer. There’s 
more than the rifles intact, dear.” 

“ Not your poor bruised body!” 

495 








THE DANGER MARK 








“My self-respect,” she whispered, the pink colour 
stealing into her cheeks. ‘“ I’ve won it back. Do you 
understand? I’ve gone after my other self and got her 
back. I’m mistress of myself, Duane; I’m in full con- 
trol, first in command. Do you know what that 
means? ” 

“Does it mean—me? ” 

6 Yes,’’ 

** When? ” 

“When you will.” 

He leaned above her, looking down into her eyes. 
Their fearless sweetness set him trembling. 

On the floor below Kathleen, at the piano, was play- 
ing the Menuet d’Exaudet.. When she ended, Scott, 
cheerily busy with his infant Rose-beetles, went about 
his affairs whistling the air. 

* Our betrothal dance; do you remember?” mur- 
mured Geraldine. ‘Do you love me, Duane? Tell me 
so; I need it.” 

*T love you,” he said. 

She lay looking at him a moment, her head cradled 
in her dark hair. Then, moving slowly, and smiling 
at the pain it gave her, she put both bare arms around 
his neck, and lifted her lips to his. 

It was the end of the prologue; the curtain trembled 
on the rise; the story of Fate was beginning. But they 
had no eyes except for each other, paid no heed save to 
each other. 

And, unobserved by them, the vast curtain rose in 
silence, beginning the strange drama which neither time 
nor death, perhaps, has power to end. 


THE END () 


Les ‘ 3 


ve ge Bie, at 


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: 
TIS at 
Ea 








OTHER BOOKS BY 
ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 


It was Mr. Chambers himself who wrote of the ca- 
prices of the Mystic Three—Fate, Chance, and Destiny 
—and how it frequently happened that a young man 
“tripped over the maliciously extended foot of Fate 
and fell plump into the open arms of Destiny.” Per- 
haps it was due to one of the pranks of the mystic sis- 
ters that Mr. Chambers himself should lay down his 
brush and palette and take up the pen. Mr. Chambers 
studied art in Paris for seven years. At twenty-four 
his paintings were accepted at the Salon; at twenty- 
eight he had returned to New York and was busy as 
an illustrator for Life, Truth, and other periodicals. 
But already the desire to write was coursing through 
him. The Latin Quarter of Paris, where he had studied 
so long, seemed to haunt him; he wanted to tell its story. 
So he did write the story and, in 1893, published it 
under the title of “ In the Quarter.”” The same year he 
published another book, “The King in Yellow,” a 
grewsome tale but remarkably successful. The easel 
was pushed aside; the painter had become writer. 

Mr. Chambers is a born optimist. The labor of 
writing is a natural enjoyment to him. In reading any- 
thing he has written one is at once impressed with the 
ease with which it moves along. There is no straining 
after effects, no affectations, no hysteria; but always 
there is a personality, an individuality that appeals to 


OTHER BOOKS BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 


the best side of the reader’s nature and somehow builds 
up a personal relation between him and the author. 
Perhaps it is this consummate skill, this remarkable 
ability to win the reader that has enabled Mr. Chambers 
to increase his audience year after year, until it now 
numbers millions ; and it is only just that critics should, 
as they frequently do, proclaim him “ the most popular 
writer in the country.” 


SDECIAL MESSENGER 


is the title of Mr. Chambers’s novel just preceding this 
present one. It is the romance of a young woman spy 
and scout in the Civil War. As a special messenger in 
the Union service, she is led into a maze of critical situa- 
tions, but her coolness and bravery and winsome person- 
ality always carry her on to victory. The story is 
crowded with dramatic incident, the roar of battle, the 
grim realities of war; and, at times, in sharp contrast, 
comes the tenderest of romance. It is written with an 
understanding and sympathy for the viewpoint of the 
partisans on both sides of the conflict. 


Mr. Chambers’s third novel of society life is 


THE FIRING LINE 


Its scenes are laid principally at Palm Beach, and no 
more distinct yet delicately tinted picture of an Ameri- 
can fashionable resort, in the full blossom-of its brief, 
recurrent glory, has ever been drawn. In this book, 
Mr. Chambers’s purpose is to show that the salvation of 
society lies in the constant injection of new blood into 
its veins. His heroine, the captivating Shiela Card- 


OTHER BOOKS BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 


ross, of unknown parentage, yet reared in luxury, sud- 
denly finds herself on life’s firing line, battling with one 
of the most portentous problems a young girl ever had 
to face. Only a master writer could handle her story ; 
Mr. Chambers does it most successfully. 


THE YOUNGER SET 


is the second of Mr. Chambers’s society novels. It takes 
the reader into the swirling society life of fashionable 
New York, there to wrestle with that ever-increasing 
evil, the divorce question. As a student of life, Mr. 
Chambers is thorough; he knows society; his pictures 
are so accurate that he enables the reader to imbibe the 
same atmosphere as if he had been born and brought up 
in it. Moreover, no matter how intricate the plot may 
be or how great the lesson to be taught, the romance in 
the story is always foremost. For “ The Younger Set,” 
Mr. Chambers has provided a hero with a rigid code of 
honor and the grit to stick to it, even though it be un- 
fashionable and out of date. He is a man whom every- 
one would seek to emulate. 


The earliest of Mr. Chambers’s society novels is 


THE FIGHTING CHANCE 


It is the story of a young man who has inherited 
with his wealth a craving for liquor, and a girl who has 
inherited a certain rebelliousness and a tendency toward 
dangerous caprice. The two, meeting on the brink of 
ruin, fight out their battles—two weaknesses joined 
with love to make a strength. 

It is sufficient to say of this novel that more than 


OTHER BOOKS BY ROBERT W. CHAMBERS 


three million people have read it. It has taken a per- 
manent place among the best fiction of the period. 


THE RECKONING 


is a novel of the Revolutionary War. It is the fourth, 
chronologically, of a series of which “ Cardigan ” and 
“The Maid-at-Arms ” were the first two. The third 
has not yet been written. These novels of New York 
in the Revolutionary days are another striking exam- 
ple of the enthusiasm which Mr. Chambers puts into his 
work. To write an accurate and successful historical 
novel, one must be a historian as well as a romancer. 
Mr. Chambers is an authority on New York State his- 
tory during the Colonial period. And, if the hours 
spent in poring over old maps and reading up old 
records and journals do not show, the result is always 
apparent. The facts are not obtrusive, but they are 
there, interwoven in the gauzy woof of the artist’s im- 
agination. That is why these romances carry convic- 
tion always, why we breathe the very air of the period | 
as we read them. 

Mr. Chambers has been a prolific writer. Up to 
the present he has given us in all thirty-four books, 
including a small volume of verse no longer in print. 
In addition to those already mentioned, his more recent 
books include 


IOLE 

SOME LADIES IN HASTE 

THE TREE OF HEAVEN 

THE TRACER OF LOST PERSONS 











UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
Los Angeles 


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et Semen er 














ousnepanenstyeanerehteese etal ssaar 
is penowemumese sed 


soonenuanhnene seer pebarorseas Lirece 


Ta ees tt 
































piecanese toh 

















peyrecunny eavseeamentreyeeser STS 


peoeuenee ars 











pancasnwnesss wwopeouantoer sens ott) 


























aaenat ve 


penpsone sae 




















naapene cenit 


















































saonens 









































erereseeer peces 























eeeeee erat cersbarst tee 






































eee ratio tcesecets baersntinswentety batmemr eran 


















































eer? : 
arrestee, 
Speanist curropestenere lores teewctrerss 


sooegeneberseserergy seer r) 









































moses 






































tee qissatgetentoscsecetatrenenesennen 














senapaeesennensies S 























porsewrarresreutoess 











einparreecteqeteenetesatieeetty 












































proeoott 














































































































prowoeee eeeeerees 















































~ 
peaese 18) 3 


eooranensed 
oop Lhaalnaceerepenes beatemet® 
wp enenaneneanests 


















































peepecesse sere oer! 






































joi ateeat 


























panmpeanae Sreverere seser let 
ee. 

























































































mecretribte 


Tialessessiovshaversapsirin recenbeerrhinewes 





rempee- pupeewayeess$ tant se 





Tad cows nicbped een eren) 





t 

















rssdin sonny esd 














peproueret Tresoe 





























Ssheeteteetecess 











mre ov eran Pe 



























































tae? 









































ceeree 











pan sesne seveute st Tos Sootet 











risreereeseteseras 


Sateen 











seseneer) 

























































































an 


peasenesey 
















































































i" 















































plaasd}>serLlivsaeeds CaP? 
eealtistrere 


at 

















Sie iirteerwiensaatet tenes 











perere 





























whe 















































prsoentemrnsreres: 























pera 























eanesaenes 

Linyresceeeees terete 
earurpogTerssseneier rear rectal is tlates te 
y * persprnenrerecperset rs titers 


























































































































ipeetetens raners 

preteses 
tron 
st wee 











